


Through Their Eyes

by clarkedarling



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family, Fluff, Love, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Slavery, Star-crossed, don't worry it'll be cute too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-03-04 13:33:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 83,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13365765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarkedarling/pseuds/clarkedarling
Summary: The story ofThe Greatest Showman, through Phillip Carlyle and Anne Wheeler's eyes.





	1. "Anne and W.D. Wheeler?"

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fic written on here, so I'm kind of fumbling my way around how this works. I've worked really hard on this story, and created what, I hope, to be plausible and somewhat-accurate backstories for the characters, based on the time period and what is said in the film and such. The tale of Phillip and Anne's relationship is such a gut-wrenching yet unbelievably romantic one that I wanted to explore it further, so I have written this story that tells the events of the film through their perspectives.
> 
> I have also added dialogue/scenes to further expand on their relationship, so don't be fazed if you feel like you missed something when watching the film!
> 
> Sidenote, I have only seen the film the once, so please forgive any errors!
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and W. D. Wheeler are struggling to make ends meet, when a chance arises that they simply can't afford to pass up on, even if Anne has her doubts.

* * *

At first, when W. D. had brought the advertisement home, calling out to the ‘curiosities’ of New York, Anne had turned her nose up in disgust.

 _They were black,_ she had thought, furiously. _Not curiosities_. She had a right mind to tear the offensive leaflet up, when W. D. took hold of her shoulders and forced her to face him. He had a good four inches on her, and his grip was determined. “Anne, we’re acrobats with black skin - we ain't gonna get a chance like this again,” he had told her, in a somewhat exasperated voice. “Never in a million years."

Folding her arms, she frowned at her brother. Sometimes, he would allow himself to be carried away with an idea or hope, and nothing Anne would say could deflate him. Often Anne found herself being the voice of reason. “What about Pépin? He employed us. He gave us a chance."

“And Pépin’s dead. Anne, it could be weeks, months even, until we find another job performing. We’ll starve before then. Unless you want to try your hand at cleaning and cooking for the white folks again?"

Anne pursed her lips, and W. D. gave her a told-you-so grimace. “Thought not,” he sighed. “Come on, Annie, this Mr Barnum might be alright."

Feeling her defences collapse as he called her by their father’s pet name for her, Anne sighed. She nodded, as W. D. enveloped her in a bone-crushing embrace, lifting her off the ground. She couldn’t help but laugh a little, as he span her around their cramped and crumbling bedsit. He set her down, and kissed her forehead. In his hand he still clutched onto the leaflet, and waved it around, triumphantly. “I’m telling you, this will be big for us, Anne!"

Anne humoured W. D., skeptical.

She was still somewhat dubious when they arrived outside Barnum’s American Museum. The passersby were barely looking in the direction of the large building, despite all it’s grandeur and splendour, some even going out of their way to avoid it. That didn’t bode well. However, the queue that spilled out of the doors told of a different story.

It took Anne’s breath away. The people that had answered P. T. Barnum’s call were some of the most magnificent and astonishing human beings Anne had ever seen. A man whose body was covered entirely in ink. A man who towered over them all. A woman with golden eyes and ebony skin. A pair of twins joined, quite literally, at the hip. A couple whose skin was like ivory, with silver hair to match. As Anne and W. D. joined the queue, she no longer felt like she had to hide under her plain, grey dress and pale, fading blue cardigan.

W. D. was buzzing with excitement - she could feel it radiating off of him. He took ahold of her hand, and together they shared an anxious look, and joined the back of the queue. Nobody looked down on them with disgust or dismay, only smiling warmly, supporting one another. Anne was taken aback - she couldn’t remember the last time a stranger smiled at her.

As they neared the front, Anne caught a glimpse of the infamous P. T. Barnum. He was a handsome man, in the conventional way, with broad shoulders, tidy hair and a charming grin. He didn’t appear in the slightest to be horrified by the hopefuls who had queued up to proposition themselves for his show. In fact, he was delighted.

Furrowing her brow, Anne wasn’t sure what to make of P. T. Barnum. The circuses her and her brother had previously performed in were less than happy to shine a spotlight on so-called ‘oddities’. More often than not the Wheeler siblings found themselves without a job when their ringleader had hired somebody else, who they deemed 'fit the audience’s expectations' - in other words, white. Other times they’d been turned away at the door, without even given the opportunity to showcase their abilities. It was very rare to come across a ringleader willing to put, not just one but two, black acrobats on centre stage. Yet here was P. T. Barnum, crying out for anyone and everyone different.

Looking around the other candidates, Anne noticed that some appeared not to have any _particular talent_ , other than being different, of course. In the queue stood a sword-wielder, fire-eaters, and trapeze artists, and then there was a man with a belly the size of a barrel. Anne couldn’t help but giggle a little, imagining him spinning through the air on her hoop. W. D. nudged her, and she ceased, feeling guilty for laughing at the poor man.

“Remember what mama always told us?” he asked her, as the tattooed man shook P. T. Barnum’s hand, grinning, leaving a mere scattering of people remaining between them and their future.

“ _Don’t look them in the eyes, speak only when spoken to, and always call them sir or ma'am,_ ” Anne recited in a monotonous tone. “I know, W. D., I know. We can’t give him a reason to turn us away."

W. D. gave his sister a sad smile. He rubbed a hand on her back, in reassuring, circular motions. “It’s not fair, I know. But we have to keep out heads down, keep out of trouble. Just look how far we’ve come already,” he told her, tucking a strand of Anne’s curly hair behind her ear. It was a gesture that reminded her of their father, which brought both warm and bitter feelings. They’d been left without a father for twelve years now, and a mother, and in that time W. D. had certainly stepped up to the plate and made sure his little sister never felt alone, filling both roles with great consideration.

Motioning to the man sat behind the desk, W. D. beamed. “Something tells me Mr Barnum’s different. We could be happy here, Annie."

After what felt a lifetime of waiting, Anne and W. D. suddenly found themselves sat in front of P. T. Barnum, under his scrutiny. He looked them both up and down, and Anne could almost see his brain whirring away, trying to suss out their act. She did as she was told, and kept her hands in her lap and eyes down. She allowed W. D. to do the talking, as he always knew what to say where Anne would otherwise find words failing her.

“Anne and W. D. Wheeler?” Barnum repeated, as though testing the names out on his tongue. There was a certain ring to it, even he had to admit that. But would it draw a crowd? “Brother and sister?"

“Yes, sir.”

“Terrific. And, what do you do?” Barnum questioned, hand on his chin, curious.

Anne felt bolded by Barnum’s lack of aversion towards the pair of them, and spoke up. “Uh, trapeze.” She felt W. D.’s eyes on her, and looked back down again, feeling a blush creeping in.

“Trapeze? What’s that?”

“It’s fairly new, sir. Invented in France,” W. D. explained, leading once more. “It’s like a performance, in the air. Swinging back and forth on ropes and bars and such."

“Uh huh. Is it dangerous?” Barnum was clearly intrigued, leaning forward on his desk.

“Very, sir. We’re twenty feet off the ground. Me and Anne take it in turns to catch each other when the other lets go."

“Extraordinary!” he cried, elated. Anne looked up, unable to quell her interest, and immediately caught Barnum’s eye to her regret. “What about you? Not afraid of the heights, then?"

Anne shook her head. “No, sir. We’re black - the scariest things are usually _outside_ the tent."

W. D.’s eyes shot open, and he tensed instantly. “Anne!” he hissed, as she frowned, but didn’t look away. Barnum was quiet for a few seconds, eyes narrowed, causing a nauseated feeling to rise up in Anne’s chest. Gulping, she waited for Barnum’s sharp retort and immediate dismissal with baited breath. When he laughed however, she felt a wave of relief wash over her. He grinned, pointing a finger at her.

“I like you. You’ve got spirit,” he chuckled, and slapped the table so hard she flinched. “I’d hire you both here and now, but there’s a few things I want to go over."

Anticipating this query, Anne reached into her skirt pockets and pulled out two folded pieces of paper, worn and stained with age. She held them out to Barnum, who eyed the documents inquisitively. “They’re our freedom papers, sir, in case you’re worried we ain't - "

P. T. Barnum appeared almost embarrassed, as he shook his head. “No, no, I don’t need to see those. Slavery has been illegal for thirty-four years now, here in New York, so you may put those papers away Miss Wheeler.” Taken aback by his politeness and deftness in dealing with the situation, Anne smiled as she tucked the documents away. “I only meant I’d like to see a demonstration, of sorts, if that’s alright?"

“Of course, Mr Barnum sir,” W. D. replied, eagerly. “We’d be happy to show you what we can do - is there somewhere you’d like us to go?”

Barnum looked around, and then gestured to a bench over by a waxwork figure of Napoleon Bonaparte. “If you wouldn’t mind just waiting over there whilst I see to the rest of the candidates, and then you can give me a taste of what trapeze is all about, ok?"

The siblings sat and waited patiently on the wooden bench, surrounded by waxwork figures of famous faces they’d seen printed in newspapers, and exotic animals their parents would tell them bedtime stories about. When Barnum approached them as he said he would, all the acts hired or dismissed, the pair shot up out of their seats, avidly. He grinned at their enthusiasm, and crossed his arms. Just as he asks them to begin, the doors flew open, and two giggling little girls came bounding in. A breathtakingly beautiful woman, with honey blonde hair and an even sweeter smile, wasn’t far behind. Barnum greeted them warmly, lifting the little girls up in his arms and planting a flurry of kisses on their faces, to their squealing delight. Anne felt a pang of grief in her chest, before she pushed it aside.

“Girls, I’d like you to meet Anne and W. D. Wheeler,” Barnum introduced, as he set them down. Anne shuffled nervously, pulling the sleeves of her cardigan down further over her arms. However, the little girls didn’t seem to care about the colour of her of her brother’s skin, and smiled widely. Reciprocating the smile, Anne’s body eased and she felt herself relax a little. “They’re brother and sister, and they’re acrobats!"

“Acrobats?” the two girls cried out in unison. The smaller one turned to W. D. and held a hand for him to shake. He took the little hand, which looked like the pit of a peach in his own, and beamed. “What are acrobats?” she inquired, with a tilt of her head.

“Well, they’re just about to show me. Would you like to watch?” Barnum asked, to which they nodded eagerly. The woman, who Anne presumed to be his wife, wrapped an arm around his waist, and laid a head on his shoulder. “You don’t mind an audience, do you? I mean, I should hope not!"

Anne and W. D. shook their heads, and turned to face each other. With a nod, they began. Utilising all the space they had, the pair performed a series of tricks that involved splits, flips, and a whole lot of strength and trust, finishing with W. D. holding Anne above his head with one hand. The Barnum’s were in awe, and the girls, including Mrs Barnum, erupted into a round of applause.

W. D. set Anne down carefully, both of them out of breath, as they turned their attention to P. T. Barnum. His arms were still crossed, but even he couldn’t hide his expression of astonishment. Mouth agape and eyes wide, he held out a hand for the siblings to shake. “That was unbelievable,” he revealed, a grin as wide as train tracks on his face. "I cannot wait to see the audiences reactions when you two perform that twenty feet up in the air."

“You know, people ain’t gonna like it if you put us up on stage, sir,” W. D. reminded Barnum, as he put an arm around his sister, in solidarity.

To Anne’s surprise, Barnum smirked with a glimmer in his eyes. “Oh, I’m counting on it."

That night, the siblings huddled in their cramped bedsit, barely the size of a matchbox. They barely had enough room to fit two cots, let alone other necessary furniture like a table or chairs. A small pot was simmering away on the stove, the unforgiving stench of beans filling the pitiful space. Anne was stirring, whilst W. D. was sat on the foot of his bed, cleaning their shoes. The walk to Barnum’s American Museum had been far, a good hour at least, as it was on the corner of Broadway and Ann Street, whilst their little bedsit was situated in the slums of Lower East Side, in Manhattan.

 _But, oh had it had been worth the walk,_ Anne thought.

Anne dished up, and handed her brother his plate. Not even the sour taste of their dinner could spoil their moods. It had been months since Anne had felt the rush of soaring through the air, or that bubbling and stirring feeling of elatedness in her stomach as she span in her hoop. She looked up at W. D. over her plate, and felt an overwhelming surge of adoration for her brother. It was he who had found the advertisement, he who had convinced her to go, he who had given her the confidence to be herself. She even had him to thank for the hot food they were eating, as if he hadn’t been pulling night shifts at the docks, they couldn’t have afforded the spoons, let alone the beans.

“Mama would be proud of you,” she told him, as they finished their last mouthful. “And daddy. Taking care of us like this. It’s really something, W. D.”

Anne could have sworn she saw her brother blush. “They’d be proud of you too, Annie. Mr Barnum took a shine to you because you spoke your mind. I know I always tell you to keep your head down, but I’m starting to think we ain’t got to worry about blending into the background where we’re going."

For once in her life, Anne truly believed her brother when he told her that they haven’t got to worry any more.


	2. "Can I buy you a drink?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip Carlyle is a depressed playwright with a drinking problem, and a resentment of his family. When P. T. Barnum approaches him with an opportunity to escape, it's up to him whether he takes it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the overwhelming support! I have been blown away by the amount of people who seem to like the story so far! I hope you all like this new chapter, as I have worked so hard on it!
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

Phillip couldn’t tell if the woman sat across from him on the barstool was actually rather attractive, or if it was his sixth round of whiskey that was fooling his eyes, like a mirage of sorts.

As she chattered away about some dress she had spotted in the window of Arnold Constable & Company, Phillip squinted his eyes, trying to make out her features. She definitely had blond hair . . . or was it red? Piled atop of her head, and pinned back with the most garish of embellishments, it was hard to tell. Her eyes were big, enormously so, that much he could see. The colour though was trickier - they all merged together. Her lips looked too small for her face, as though she had swallowed them whilst blathering on about the matching shoes.

 _Did she have an off-switch?_ Phillip thought to himself, as he gestured to the bartender to top up his now desperately empty glass. If had to endure another hour of her incessant ramblings, he was going to do it with belly full of whiskey.

Suddenly, he felt her hand reach out and strike him across the cheek, rendering his sight even blurrier. It appeared he had spoken his thoughts aloud, and the poor girl had heard him. Huffing, she gathered up her skirts and stepped off the stool. “I’d heard you had drank away your cheer, Phillip Carlyle,” she hissed, seething with humiliation. “But I had not expected you to have drowned your manners in liquor too. You can expect my resignation after tomorrow’s performance."

As she scurried away, out of the bar, a lightbulb went off inside Phillip’s head. So she had been an actress in one of his plays! He had lost all recollection of meeting her well into his third glass, but hadn't wanted to ask where he knew her from. Sighing, he held up his glass of whiskey to his throbbing cheek, but not before having a sip first, of course.

“Lucky escape there, eh Mr Carlyle?” jested the bartender, smirking from behind a dishcloth and dirty glass.

Phillip chuckled, and that was the last thing he remembered before blacking out. He woke up into the early hours of the next morning, feeling a jabbing sensation in his back, when the city was just starting to stir, and the hustle and bustle was growing outside the window. He had fell asleep at the bar, as he had many times before, and as usual the bartender had just left him. In the beginning he had offered to call him cabs, or even phone for someone who could fetch him, but Phillip always insisted that he be left, just him and his whiskey, to drink himself into a stupor.

Groggily, he wiped the sleep from his eyes and turned around to see what was digging into his back, only to find two boys of no more than seven poking him with his own walking cane. Snapping it from their hands, causing them to flinch and run away, he reached for his jacket and strode over to the door. The light was more than enough to cause his already aching migraine to double in sensitivity, as he began his walk home. He refused to take a cab, afraid that the twisting and turning would only cause his nausea to worsen.

The walk back to his parent’s house in Carnegie Hill, on the Upper East Side, never felt long enough. There was never enough distance he could put between him and his family. He had only been staying with them the past few days as his own apartment was being refurnished. You see, despite the success of his plays on Broadway, Phillip had found himself feeling rather down-spirited as of late. This taken into account, along with the poor mixture of alcohol, insomnia and depression, he had awoke one morning to find his apartment in complete disrepair, after he had taken a bat to most of his belongings in a fit of misdirected rage.

Phillip passed many slums on his trek home. It pained him to see children with dirt smeared on their faces, and rumbling bellies, peering out at him from their windows. A woman tugged his elbow as he turned a corner, brandishing her brood of bony children towards him, as they each held out their hands, pleading for any spare change or bread. He had spent every last dime he had - from his pockets, admittedly he had a considerable amount more tucked away in his bank account. Turning his back on the starving family was heart-wrenching. He looked down at his finery, crumpled from his night spent at a barstool, and despised every inch of fabric he wore.

It had just gone past nine when he arrived at his parent’s doorstop. Hoping that they’d be out, or better yet still in bed, he rapped the knocker against the wooden frame. Nellie, one of the maids, opened the door, greeting Phillip with a curt nod of her head. Past her shoulder, he spotted his father, nostrils flaring.

“What the devil have you been doing out all night, Phillip?” he roared, as Phillip stepped inside. Nellie took his jacket, her skin the colour of the charcoal material, and hurried away, leaving the father and son to themselves.

“I’ve been celebrating, father,” Phillip sighed, running a hand through his unkempt hair. “The premiere was a triumph."

“You reek of liquor,” Howard Carlyle retorted, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “And I see you’ve been brawling again. Very mature."

His father didn’t appear to hear a single word that was coming from Phillip’s mouth. “I received a standing ovation, which you would have known if you and mother had bothered to attend."

“Your mother has barely had a wink of sleep, worrying incessantly about you all night!” he cried, ignoring his son once more.

At the mention of his mother, Phillip rolled his eyes. She barely noticed when he was there, let alone when he wasn’t. She wouldn’t have lost a moments sleep at the expense of her son. He made his way to the drawing room, with the intention of reclining in the armchair by the fire and warming his aching limbs. However, he found Mathilda Carlyle sat in his beloved armchair instead, lips pursed and hands clasped, as though she were a schoolmaster.

“Now Phillip, this is no way to find yourself a wife,” she tutted, her cold and unfeeling eyes raking over his appearance. “You have a reputation to uphold."

Phillip gritted his teeth. “ _Reputation, reputation, reputation_ ,” he mocked, resentfully. “Oh mother, you’re turning into a broken record. Is there anything you care more about than our damned reputation?"

Howard bound over to Phillip immediately, eyes ablaze and filled with fury. Phillip instantly felt transported to his younger years, when his father would tell him off for dancing with the paupers to the music in the street, or when his father found stories he had written about knights and dragons and princesses under his pillow. “How dare you speak to your mother like that!” he roared, a vein threatening to pop in his forehead. “Have some respect!"

“Howard dear, don’t strain yourself. Phillip here just needs reminding that he’s a grown man, not a petulant child who thinks he can have his own way by throwing tantrums,” his mother said, with a malicious tone. “A wife will straighten him out."

“I have no wish to find a wife, mother!” he repeated, exasperated.

“I know. That’s why I’ve found you one. Get washed and dressed, she’ll be here at twelve."

Phillip could scarcely believe the words that came so easily out of his mother’s mouth. He was still struggling to come to terms with them, even with his mother’s choice of bride sat five feet across from him at the lunch table. O’Brien, their cook, had outdone herself with the spread of sandwiches and cakes on display, and Nellie stood on hand to pour the tea. Phillip found himself topping up his own cup under the table with the amber contents from his flask when his parents and guest weren’t looking.

The girl was pretty, of course, with soft, fair locks, and sparkling blue eyes. She had on a flattering periwinkle coloured dress, and knew how to compose herself, sat upright with her hands in her lap. However her lips were taut, and her complexion pinched. _Mother certainly knew how to pick them_ , Phillip contemplated, as he couldn’t help but notice the similarities between the pair.

Her name was Miss Harriet Greyson, and her father was an associate of his father’s, in real estate. Apparently she was one of the most sought-after socialites in the North, a quality Phillip had yet to fathom why. She was attractive, yes, but that was as far as her out-of-the-ordinary attributes extended. She was averse to smiling, he hadn’t heard her say one thing of substance yet, and she regarded Nellie as though she were a leper, flinching when she became too close.

“I’m surprised at you, Mrs Carlyle, hiring one of _them_ ,” Harriet began, without considering the fact that Nellie could hear her. Phillip gripped his knife as he buttered a teacake so tightly that his knuckles grew white. “When we’d met last spring I was rather inspired by your critique of the state of modern slavery. I felt your suggestion to round them all up and send them to work on the railroads and the plantations was very astute."

“Isn’t Miss Greyson a wonder, Phillip?” his mother chuckled, setting her teacup down on the table. “Not only is she a beauty to marvel at, but she is political too! You’d never run out of conversation with her, that I’m sure of."

Phillip, who had wished for nothing more than for the ground to swallow him up, turned to his mother with a rigid expression. “I’m afraid our conversation would run rather dry, mother, if all Miss Greyson’s views are as ignorant and shallow as her preposterous one on the coloured people of America."

“You think they should be allowed to run wild, Mr Carlyle?” Harriet asked, incredulously. Clearly, nobody had ever opposed her before.

“They are not animals to be caged,” Phillip corrected her. “So if you’re asking if I believe they should be allowed something so basic as freedom, then yes, I do."

Glancing over at Nellie, Phillip noticed that her eyes had a glassy sheen to them and her breathing had grown hollow, as though she were holding back tears. His heart went out to as, as did unfortunately his mother’s gaze. “Oh, do compose yourself you stupid girl,” his mother hissed. “Or else you shall by looking for employment elsewhere, do I make myself clear?"

Nellie nodded. “Yes ma’am, sorry ma’am."

Folding his napkin back into a neat square, Phillip stood up from the table, and straightened his waistcoat out. Furrowing her brows, his mother looked up at him. “What are you doing, Phillip?"

“I’m going out, mother,” he sighed, as Nellie disappeared to fetch his coat.

“Don’t be ridiculous, we have company,” she reminded him, widening her eyes. This was his mother’s worst fear; being humiliated in public. If Miss Harriet Greyson was at the top of the dizzying heights of society, then word could reach others that the Carlyle heir was disinterested in marrying, and possibly even worse - supported the rights of African-Americans.

As Phillip placed slid his arms into his jacket, he dipped his head courteously in Harriet’s direction. “I apologise you coming all this way, Miss Greyson, for I have no interest in a wife as of present, let alone one who is pretentious, elitist bully such as yourself. Good day."

And with those final words, Phillip left swiftly, finding solace in the brisk air outside. As usual, he had felt suffocated when in the company of his family. They didn’t understand him, and didn’t even try to, proceeding to dictate his every move. When his apartment was restored to it’s original state, he could continue to ignore them and they him, until social events brought them back together, where they could each pretend to be a somewhat functioning family for a few hours.

Phillip continued walking all afternoon, until his watch struck seven, and it was time for the second showing of his play, _Glasshouses_. Phillip stood in the doorway, a fake smile plastered across his features, as he welcomed visitors to the theatre. They were most complimentary, some raving about the reviews they had read in _The New York Times_ , others very keen to tell him that this was their second viewing since they loved the first so much. Thanking them all kindly, Phillip stayed until the last of the audience had stepped inside, and then left. He simply walked out, reaching for his flask like some might reach for the hand of a lover in times of need.

Leaning against a pillar, nursing his whiskey, he heard a man approach him. Briefly looking up, he saw an impressive looking man, clad in a well-made suit and top hat. “Mr Carlyle?” he asked. “Did you produce this play?"

“Yes, I did,” Phillip replied, screwing the cap of his flask shut. “Refunds are available at the front box office."

The man chuckled as he extended an arm to the writer. “P. T. Barnum,” he introduced himself.

Surprised, Phillip couldn’t hide his expression from his face. “From the circus?” He knew his work appealed to the upper classes - but the circus? Now that was a shock.

“You’ve been?” Barnum responded, as Phillip took his hand.

“God no,” Phillip snorted, before he could stop himself. All that whiskey was starting to loosen his tongue. Thinking of a way he could amend his rudeness, he rushed to say something flattering. “But I have seen the crowds. People leave your shows a great deal happier than when they went in. That’s much more than I could say for my play."

“And yet you have no trouble selling tickets,” Barnum pointed out, not visibly offended by Phillip’s earlier slip. Clearly, this was a man of business.

“That’s because I’m selling virtue,” Phillip mustered, trying to explain his crowds in comparison to Barnum’s circus. In a way, he was right - or so he believed. His places were the upmost of honour and integrity, which is why he attracted the men and women with a desire to show off their finery and high standings. Barnum sold the chance to marvel at imperfections and the unimaginable, which is why he attracted those with a need to feel better by looking at those worse off.

“Can I buy you a drink?"

Phillip showed Barnum to the nearest bar, which also happened to be his own wearing hole. Recognising Phillip as he walked through the door, the bartender poured out a large glass of whisky with a nod of his head. Sitting down at the countertop, Barnum looked around, impressed.

“I want to go after the aristocracy,” Barnum explained as Phillip downed his drink in one. “Purchase some legitimate acts, expand our appeal, go after the stars."

Barnum’s excitement at the possibility of catering to the wealthy was almost laughable. Phillip shook his head, and looked down into the empty contents of his glass. “If you only knew how suffocating they are,” he sighed.

“Join the circus. You clearly have a flair for show business."

Struggling to comprehend the proposition from this man he had known all of ten minutes, Phillip looked at his companion dubiously, searching his expression for even the slightest hint of mocking. Yet all he found was earnestness. “What’s show business?"

“I just invented it,” Barnum replied with a twinkle in his eye. “Teach me how to appeal to the high brows."

The bartender, ever reliable, placed a round of vodka shots in front of the two men, to which they knocked back instantly. Experience and practice on his side, Phillip was the first to finish, as he turned to face the man once more. “Are you serious? Mr Barnum, I can’t just run off and join the circus."

“Why not? Sounds thrilling, doesn’t it?"

“Let’s just say I find it much more comfortable admiring your show from afar."

“Comfort; the enemy of progress,” Barnum smirked, as he tossed a peanut into the air and caught it without hesitation in his mouth. Phillip resisted the urge to ask him if this was trick he had learned from one of his many acts.

“You understand that just associating myself with you could cost you my inheritance?” Phillip inquired, pushing the refilled glass in front of Barnum. He resented the need to say it, and he resented how he _sounded_ saying it, but it was true. His father had come close to excluding him from the family when he discovered that his only son and heir had gone off to study English Literature at Harvard University instead of Business, as was the ‘plan’. Though they weren’t satisfied with his profession as a playwright, they endured it as it meant that Phillip had become a renowned figure in New York society, and an even wealthier one at that. How would they react if he told them he was leaving that all behind to become business partners with the owner of a circus?

“Oh, it could cost you more than that,” Barnum laughed. “You’d be risking everything, but on the other hand you might just find yourself a free man.”

He slid the glass back in Phillip’s direction, as the appeal of being independent and free from all societal restraints began to become clear. Phillip drank the glass empty, unable to resist the urge, though his head was beginning to throb. He hadn’t quite recovered from the alcohol the night before, and was still suffering. Yet, Mr Barnum kept pushing drinks his way as he chatted on and on about the prospects that awaited him in the circus, his resolve breaking with every drop of vodka.

Suddenly, Phillip found himself shaking hands with Barnum, the pair grinning like Cheshire cats. It appeared he had agreed to become partner, on the condition that he received ten percent of the profits. Barnum was more than happy to agree to his terms, as he held the man steady and upright.

“Would like to see what you’ve invested in, Mr Carlyle?” Barnum asked, gleefully.

“Please, call me Phillip - we’re partners now!"


	3. "Who is that?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Phillip meet for the first time, and it's nothing short of electric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is slightly shorter than the others, but I promise that the next one will be longer. I've just been so busy with college, but so keen to continue this story that I've been trying to juggle both.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it, and thank you for the continued support.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

Phillip didn’t mind much where Barnum was taking him, he just enjoyed the company. The early May evening chill was bracing, and allowed Phillip to sober up slightly, the cold air sending a shock through his system. However, the weather wasn’t icy enough for Phillip to come _completely_ to his senses, for he still had agreed to join Barnum’s venture.

They didn’t walk far, and before Phillip had time to change his mind, he found himself being ushered into Barnum’s American Museum. As soon as he walked through the doors, the crowd’s cheers hit him like a brick wall. They were deafening. Phillip couldn’t help but notice that the audience didn’t cheer like that after his plays. It was curious, to say the least.

Barnum motioned for him to climb a set of stairs concealed by a large stuffed giraffe. Nothing less than intrigued, Phillip complied, feeling as though he wasn’t quite prepared for what awaited him on the other side. “Go on, you know you want to see what’s got the whole of New York talking,” Barnum smirked.

Giving in, Phillip pushed the door open, and was left awestruck by the spectacle unfolding on the stage, an eruption of colour and music and _talent_ , all of which the likes he had never even dreamed of. Stepping forward, he spotted a duo performing jaw-dropping stunts on a piece of aerial equipment in the sky.

That’s when he saw _her_. Hanging upside down on a wire, a good twenty feet above the audience, he watched as she flew towards him, the whole world slowing down. Taking his hat off, as he was good manners, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the girl. She had hair a shocking shade of pink, and pair of softer pink lips to match. Her cheeks glowed, and he could see the glitter dusted on her face as it dazzled in the spotlight. Her skin was the colour of coffee, and her costume a spectacular lilac. Her eyes, dark like the whiskey he was fond of, locked with his, and he knew right then and there would never be anybody else for him. Nobody as graceful as her, nobody as sparkling as her, nobody as unbelievable as her.

She had taken his breath away, and it was a while until he retrieved it. She had pointed at him, and Phillip wondered if she had seen him as he had seen her.

“Who is that?” he muttered under his breath.

“Anne Wheeler,” Barnum answered, appearing at his shoulder. Phillip had forgotten completely about him, and jumped slightly when he heard his voice. “Quite the talent, isn’t she? She’s one of our most popular acts, a real artist in the air. That’s her brother, W. D. Wheeler. Very protective."

He was still captivated, watching as the girl, Anne, performed a trick where she pretended to miss the bar, and as the audience gasped collectively, her brother swooped in on his bar and caught her, proceeding to swing her back onto the platform. Barnum gestured for Phillip to follow him backstage, but he was reluctant to tear his eyes off of Anne Wheeler. Then, as if reading his thoughts, the pair took their final bow, and descended to the ground.

Heart hammering away in his chest, Phillip thundered down the stairs after Barnum as he told off a salesman for not being in the right place. Struggling not to be in the way, he ducked and swerved as an assortment of props flew past him.

“W. D. . . . Anne, I want to introduce my newest hire, Mr Phillip Carlyle,” Barnum exclaimed, as the pair came jogging through.

Looking up, Phillip saw the towering frame of W. D. Wheeler, built like a powerhouse, and dressed in his purple, glittering costume, it would almost have been comical. His skin was like chocolate, and his grin was friendly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” W. D. said as he outstretched a hand for him to shake. Taking it graciously, Phillip nodded, returning the favour. “Pleasure.” He was a little out of breath, partly due to the pace he had took off after Barnum.

Turning to the right, Phillip came face-to-face, again, with Anne Wheeler. She was even more beautiful up close, and tall too. Phillip was at a loss for words, as he found him self entranced by her once more. He felt nervous, for the first time in a long time.

“And what is your act, Mr Carlyle?” she asked him, in a honey-dripping Southern drawl.

“I . . . I don’t have . . . an act,” he breathed, trying to find words to string together that didn’t make him appear to be completely dim-witted.

Worried that she’d find his response dull, he stood tense, waiting. Then she beamed, and Phillip felt his heart leap up. “Everyone’s got an act,” she told him, with a nod of her head. She then began walking away, but not before looking him up and down with a gaze that sent shivers down his spine.

He couldn’t help himself. He watched as she walked away, her purple cape veil billowing behind her. It was strange, he should have felt immoral of sorts, staring at a girl dressed in nothing more than a leotard, but it wasn’t like that. He wasn’t thinking about _that_ , just her.

* * *

As Anne walked away, she heard footsteps behind her, and her initial thought was that Mr Phillip Carlyle was following her. Biting back a grin, a witty remark ready on her tongue, she waited with baited breath for him to say something. Instead, it was her brother that spoke.

“What do you make of that Mr Carlyle?” he asked her, with furrowed eyebrows, watching her reaction closely.

“I don’t think anything,” she replied, feeling her cheeks grow a little red. She sat in front of her vanity mirror, dabbing at her cheeks in an attempt to conceal her blush.

Truth was, Anne was surprised by how much Phillip’s presence affected her. He was alluring in every sense of the word. His eyes, the most striking shade of bright blue, managed to catch hers from all the way across the room. Though dressed smartly, Anne could tell he hid a chiselled physique under that fabric, a realisation that was enough to cause her mouth to dry up. He spoke like a gentleman, when the words found him, and this alone made her feel nervous. Yet, despite his crisp suit, fanciful name, and eloquent way of talking, he had still took W. D.’s hand without hesitation, and hadn’t appeared offended by Barnum’s choice to introduce him to a pair of coloured acrobats. This intrigued her, more than she liked.

W. D. loomed over her shoulder, arms crossed. “I saw you, Anne, staring at him when he wasn’t looking, and then pretending to be busy with your tape when he did look at you,” he told her, in that matter-of-fact tone elder brothers tend to use when scolding their younger sisters. “You might have fooled him, but you didn’t me. And during our performance, after you first saw him, you lost your focus. Weren’t thinking straight. That stumble could have cost you your life if I hadn’t caught you!"

Anne shook her head, huffing. She took her pot of rouge, and patted a little on her lips. “Really W. D., you’re reading too much into the whole thing."

“I saw his face when he looked at you,” W. D. continued. “It was as though he ain’t ever seen somebody so pretty. Couldn’t take his eyes off you."

Frowning, Anne readjusted her wig. Her blush was getting harder to hide now, especially with the glow of the lights illuminating her face. “He probably just never seen a black girl with pink hair before,” she pointed out. “I suspect he’s got money, and that’s why Barnum’s brought him on. He’ll have his fun, and by next week he’ll be bored of us all."

“Something tells me he’s found a reason to stick around,” her brother muttered, as they heard Barnum’s booming voice, calling them back to the stage for the final performance.

Anne and W. D. made their way to the stage, and passed Phillip, who was trying to stay out of the way as all the acts stormed past him. His eyes locked with Anne’s, and she remembered what her brother had said. Quickly looking away, she turned her attention back to the matter at hand. Though she didn’t like to admit it, W. D. had been right - she had lost her focus. Phillip Carlyle had thrown her, caught her off guard. The world had slowed down, and the audience had slipped away, when they’d looked at each other. She couldn’t explain it, nor could she explain the butterflies growing in her chest as she felt his eyes on her.

Taking her place beside her brother, and Lettie, she tried to ignore Phillip out of the corner of her eye. It proved more difficult then she thought.

* * *

Barnum had called Phillip into his office, where the pair sat across from one another at his desk. Phillip was clutching his flask, near enough empty. Barnum didn’t judge, and allowed the playwright to indulge his vices, though made it very clear he was sticking to a cup of steaming coffee. After the chaos of being introduced to each of the acts, all twenty-seven of them, Phillip felt thoroughly worn out, and yet excited at the same time.

“I have to apologise for my dismissive attitude earlier,” Phillip burst suddenly, taking Barnum back a little. “It was rude of me to assume that this was some cheap . . . "

“Freak show?” Barnum suggested, with a tilt of his head.

Ashamed, Phillip hung his head. “Yes, that. I could not have been more wrong. This show you have created, it really is something special,” he exclaimed, his heart racing as he thought back to the finale, and the incredible musical number that had the whole audience on their feet. If that was the merely the ending, Phillip couldn’t wait to see the whole thing, in full. “I mean, everybody on stage has a gift that you’d struggle to find anywhere else."

Barnum smiled, leaning back in his chair. His feet were up on the desk, as he inspected the aristocrat across from him. A couple of hours ago, Phillip Carlyle was downcast and disgruntled, barely in the mood to hold a conversation. Now, he had a gleam in his eye, and a certain enthusiasm to his voice. The show truly had changed his perceptions, on both Barnum’s Circus and perhaps the world in general.

“Those people you saw on the stage, those talented, talented performers, they have been shunned and chased from society. From the public eye. All because they’re different. Different colours, different sizes, different in every way possible. Imagine, gifts like that being suppressed?” Barnum sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. “What I’ve done is brought them all out of hiding. Given them a chance to show the world just what they’re capable of."

Phillip cast his mind back to the trapeze act, and Anne Wheeler, and thought about how he had once thought Barnum’s show to be a joke. He could have kicked himself. The fact that Anne would have been turned away from every production on Broadway despite her unbelievable skill, including his own, mortifyingly, sent a surge of anger through his veins. Barnum wasn’t selling the opportunity to gawk at the mutants of society, he was selling a once in a lifetime opportunity to be amazed and astounded by the spectacular.

With that, Phillip extended a hand to his business partner. “Thank you, Mr Barnum, for this chance to create something incredible with you."


	4. "Do you understand, Mr Carlyle?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip has always considered himself to be open-minded and perceptive, however after a couple of hours spent at the circus, he receives, quite literally, a wake-up call that opens his eyes to the injustice the acts endure, including a certain trapeze artist.

* * *

When Phillip awoke the next morning, still in the chair in Barnum’s office, he realised with a sudden consciousness that this was the first time, perhaps in his lifetime, that he wasn’t dreading the day ahead of him. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and stretching his back, he looked over across from him to find P. T. Barnum, working away.

He was dressed in different clothes, and looked a damn sight more refreshed than Phillip probably did, so he assumed that Barnum had gone home last night, leaving Phillip to his slumber. He grinned sheepishly at his business partner, feeling slightly embarrassed at having fallen asleep in his office.

“I thought you could do with the sleep,” Barnum told him, looking up from his paperwork. “Something told me you needed it."

Grateful, Phillip nodded, and picked up the flask that had fell on the floor in the night. It was completely empty, and he made a mental note to refill it as soon as possible.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Both men turned in the direction of the sound, to find Anne Wheeler stood at the door. Phillip was in awe of her natural appearance, to say the least. Without her bright, pink wig, her hair was chestnut brown, with little curls that made her look angelic. Her skin glowed, even without the help of any glitter or spotlights. She was still tall, and graceful, trading her purple costume for a dark blue dress and cream satin shawl. All confidence that had exuded from her last night seemed to have dissipated, however, leaving an anxious young woman unable to look anywhere but down at her hands.

As though conscious of what Anne would think of him, reeking of booze and still wearing his clothes from the previous day, Phillip tried to smoothen his hair down instead, and sat up straighter.

“Yes Anne, what can I do for you?” Barnum asks, with a friendly tone.

“Uh, Mr Barnum, sir, if it’s no trouble, I was wondering if I could go into the city today?” she chirped up, in a small voice. It was as though she was afraid to be a nuisance, or an inconvenience. “My tights ripped last night, see, and I ain’t got another pair."

The whole set-up of Barnum’s circus was so unlike anything Phillip had witnessed before. Never in polite society would a lady bring up the subject of her undergarments, let alone in front of other men. And yet, it felt almost normal here.

“Of course you can, but make sure you take W. D. with you, or Prince Constantine,” Barnum replied, smiling. Anne thanked him, and turned to leave, when Barnum stopped her. “You don’t have to call me sir, Anne. No need for formalities here, alright?"

“Sorry, sir,” she apologised, and caught herself slipping. She laughed nervously, a sound that was like music to Phillip’s ears. “Force of habit, I guess."

“We’re all equal here,” Barnum assured her, with a warm grin. “Plus, you’re a star. You haven’t got to worry about losing your job."

Anne looked over at Phillip, for the first time since she had stepped in as though she had been avoiding eye contact, as her eyes raked his appearance. She took into account, despite the dishevelled form, his upper-class attire, and frowned. Clearly she didn’t agree with Barnum’s statement, about them all being equal, not by the way she was looking at Phillip, and simply nodded as she left the office.

The atmosphere after she left was slightly sombre, as Phillip and Barnum watched her retreating figure disappear down the stairs.

“Poor girl,” Barnum sighed, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine the kind of life her and W. D. have had to live. All her life she’s been treated as inferior to everybody else. She’s so scared that if she takes one step out of line, I’ll send her packing."

That thought was distressing for Phillip to hear. Just the idea that Anne was constantly worrying about having to leave the circus that she was embarrassed to ask for new tights. “Why can’t she go into the city alone? Is she in danger?"

Barnum looked at Phillip, incredulously. “Phillip - _she’s black_. She’s always in danger,” he told him, his tone so serious that Phillip felt his heart sink. “I know Anne can handle herself, she’s tough. Not many people can do what she does every night. Recently, however, we’ve had some . . . unspeakable threats, made towards Anne and the other coloured acts. Patsey, Nnemoma, Mswati, Queenie, W. D. and Anne - they’re all vulnerable. Hai, Dang, Chang and Eng too. I don’t like for them to be alone when they leave here."

Phillip was amazed that he had remembered all their names, and even more shocked to hear how many of Barnum’s - their - circus acts were in danger. It was harrowing, that all these talented people were at risk simply because they were different ethnicities. He was outraged. Ashamed, mostly. He had always known their was injustice in the world, but he had never seen the full extent of it’s effect. He had barely glimpsed it at Barnum’s circus, but that glimpse was more than most got to see.

Another knock on the door alerts the pair of them. Hoping Anne had returned, Phillip snapped his head in the direction of the door once more. Instead he saw Lettie Lutz, with a concerned expression on her face. She was wringing her hands nervously, and sounded out of breath. Clearly she had rushed there.

“What is it, Lettie?” Barnum inquired, eyebrows furrowed. He leaned forward in his chair, tense.

“There’s an issue, with the lion. Something in his paw,” she replied, through her gasps for air. “It won’t settle."

This wasn’t the bad news Barnum had been expecting when Lettie appeared, and breathed a sigh of relief. Laughing, he relaxed in his chair. “Oh, that’s no problem,” he chuckled. “Phillip here will be more than happy to assist you, won’t you?"

Barnum hadn’t left Phillip with much of a choice. Reluctantly getting up out of his seat, he nodded, swallowing. Lettie also appeared unsure, but didn’t argue, and gestured for him to follow her to where they kept the lions. His heart hammering away inside his chest, he could barely hear what Lettie was saying, the pounding echoing in his ears. He caught words, such as _mauled_ , _claws_ , and _no escape_ , which did nothing to calm his nerves, which were escalating by the second.

He could hear the lion before he saw it. Passing the open corridor where many acts would prepare for the show, Phillip and Lettie turned a corner to the pen, where the lion was kept, in it’s enclosure. Increasingly worried, Phillip had expected to see a great, ferocious beast, roaring and snarling. Instead, he found Anne sat in the pen, with the lion sprawled across her lap. His initial thought was that Anne was in danger, that the creature had her pinned down. She was very slender after all, whereas the lion was the size of a wagon. Then his fear turned into astonishment. The lion was _purring_ , just as a cat would. Anne was speaking to him in a soft voice, stroking his mane. There was no terror in her expression, no alarm. She was comforting the animal, whilst the official lion-tamer proceeded to pull whatever was ailing the lion from his paw. The lion flinched as the object was removed, and reared his head, baring his impressive teeth. The lion-tamer scarpered, sweat dripping from his brow, whilst Anne continued to soothe the lion, allowing him to lick her hand.

“How is she able to do that?” Phillip muttered, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene unfolding in front of him.

“It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?” Lettie grinned, watching Anne cuddling the lion. “The Wheeler’s have been in the circus most of their life. When Anne was barely ten, their ringmaster had brought two lions on, just cubs themselves too. Anne was the only one who could get them to calm down. All these years later, after Barnum bought them a month ago, they recognise her. She’s still the only one able to calm them. She’s part of the pride, as far as they’re concerned. One of them."

As Lettie was recounting the story, another lion appeared, a female. She nuzzled Anne’s head, as Anne raised a hand to stroke her too. Soon the two lions were on the floor, at her feet, whilst Anne caressed them both, laughing. Her laugh was just as beautiful as she was, and infectious too.

W. D. appeared at Phillip’s shoulder, and followed his gaze. “Anne’s always been good with animals, prefers them over people I think,” he explained, arms crossed.

“She certainly has a way with them,” Phillip replied, nodding.

“I suppose it’s cause she knows they can’t let her down,” W. D. added, watching Phillip closely. “That they ain’t gonna mess her about. Take advantage, get bored of her, leave her for something better - that sort of thing. Do you understand, Mr Carlyle?"

Phillip knew exactly what W. D. was suggesting, and gritted his teeth. W. D. was worried about Phillip hurting his sister, which is fair enough, but there were more subtle ways of getting his message across. Less aggressive ways. Besides, Phillip had no intentions of wounding Anne; he wouldn’t dream of it. He would never take advantage of her, never grow bored of her, and never leave her for something better - for there was no one better. “I understand,” he finally said, through tight lips. “But you have nothing to worry about - "

“Oh, I know,” W. D. interjected, before Phillip could finish. “Because you’re gonna stay away from her. She doesn’t need some rich pretty boy toying with her feelings."

With that W. D. left Phillip’s side, and walked over to the pen. Anne was saying goodbye to the lions, who seemed almost sad to see her leave. Smiling, she allowed her brother to help her out of the small enclosure. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, Anne caught Phillip’s gaze, and her smile dropped as she averted her eyes immediately. Feeling somewhat despondent, Phillip turned back to Lettie and asked if there were any more jobs that needed doing - as long as it didn’t involve the lions.


	5. "You don't know?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne discovers just who Phillip Carlyle is whilst walking through New York City, and she finds that she's not quite sure what to make of him anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the continued support! I'm honestly so overwhelmed! All the love is what is motivating me to work so hard to write chapter after chapter.
> 
> Quick note; I accidentally posted Chapter 4 twice, so I apologise for any confusion that may have caused. I'm new to this website, so I'm still trying to learn the ropes.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Wandering the streets of New York, Anne felt exposed.

Night after night she would perform in a tight leotard, baring more skin than most respectable ladies would dare to, in front of hundreds. That never bothered her, in fact she relished the applause and the cheers. Her outfit was part of the persona she was allowed to portray on the stage. The confidence that would emanate from her all came, in part, from that pink wig and purple costume. Her skin, the colour of cinnamon, was on full display, and - for once - that wasn’t people’s main focus. The majority of the audience were too in awe of the acts she achieved in the air to notice, or care, that she was a black woman.

However, walking from place to place, outside of the comfort of the circus, Anne still felt as though she were still under a spotlight. There was no bright wig, or fancy feats to distract people with. Even under a long-sleeved, blue pioneer dress, and oversized, pale blue cardigan, Anne felt exposed. Even if she hid her hands in her pocket to fool those behind, her hair betrayed her. Pinned up in a messy bun, chestnut brown tendrils framing her face, it was clear to anyone that this was not the hair of a white woman.

Not that she didn’t appreciate the company, or want it, but Prince Constantine and her brother, W. D. only helped to draw attention too. Constantine was dressed in a beige shirt, tucked into a pair of brown trousers, and a grey jacket. However respectable his attire was, the ink on his hands and face gave him away, just as Anne’s hair did. W. D. was under scrutiny too, if not more. His skin was darker than Anne’s, the colour of mahogany, and his black trousers, white shirt and khaki blazer did nothing to hide that fact.

Anne walked with her arm linked in her brother’s, Constantine flanking her other side, the pair of them behaving as though they were her bodyguards. She looked ahead, not to meeting anybody’s stares, and truly to ignore the comments of passersby. The two men were trying their best to keep her mind from worrying, knowing that she was more sensitive to the sneers and jests.

“That smell reminds me of home,” Constantine exclaimed, pointing to a local bakery.

He was originally from Greece, with Albanian heritage, and Anne was always fascinated to hear about the culture he came from, as she was the other acts. They were fortunate at Barnum’s Circus to be in the company of people from all over the world. They had seven Americans, yes, but they also had six African-Americans (two from Ghana, one from Nigeria, and one from Cameroon - Anne and W. D. had ties to Zimbabwe), two Chinese acts, two Polish acts, two French acts, two Thai-Americans, one Irish act, one Canadian act, one Greek Albanian, one Russian act, one Swiss act, one Mexican, and one German. All the different languages that Anne would hear spoken backstage gave her chills. She would ask question after question, keen to hear how they all came to New York.

While Anne wouldn’t hesitate to interview the acts, she was very reluctant to give up answers of her own. Very little was known about her and W. D.’s origins, only that they had practically grown up in the circus, travelling from state to state looking for work.

“We ain't ever had Greek food, have we?" Anne pointed out, looking up at her brother. Anne was tall, certainly, but her brother towered over her, gaining a good four inches on her. This meant he was tallest out of all the acts, with the exception of ‘The Irish Giant’ himself.

W. D. shook his head. “Nope. Just beans and rice,” he sighed. Suddenly a waft of the Greek delicacies washed over the three of them, and Anne thought that must be what heaven smelt like. “I wouldn’t mind a taste though."

Constantine grinned, and threw his hands up into the air. “Ah, you must try some _loukoumades_ my friend! Both of you! Nothing like it."

He led them over to the bakery doors, the scent of honey and almonds and cinnamon growing stronger, and more enticing. The shopkeeper, a little round woman, squealed when she spotted the three circus acts walk into her shop, and dropped the pastry she was clutching. Her beady eyes flitted between the two black trapeze artists and the tattooed man, clearly bewildered. Speaking very fast in a language that only Constantine understood, she waved her stubby fingers at the door. The beam dropped from Constantine’s face as he pleaded with the woman, only to attract the attention of another baker, this one with a thick moustache and arms the size of barrels. The arguing ceased, and a dejected looking Constantine ushered W. D. and Anne out of the shop, apologising profusely.

“I am so sorry,” he muttered, running a hand through his dark hair. “I just wanted to do something nice."

Continuing their trip, feeling a little more worse for wear than they had when they set out, the three of them found themselves on Broadway. The grand buildings always took Anne’s breath away. The whole nobility and majesty of it all was what lured her in, the chance to escape her life of cramped bedsits and moth-eaten dresses. However, there wasn’t a theatre in the whole of the United States of America that would permit a black person to step foot inside. Anne had been turned away from each and every one, and yet she still kept going back, crossing her fingers and trying her luck.

She thought back to when her and her brother were younger, and they would enact plays for their parents, and everyone in the houses around them. They would always be adventure stories, where the main characters - her and W. D. - would have to fight off invisible villains, and rescue invisible people in peril. Anne could still remember how she insisted their parents sat in the front row. The pair of them would alway clap the loudest, gasping and laughing at all the right moments, asking for encores. It was here that they discovered a fair for performing.

Her eyes drank in the posters plastered on the billboards outside, advertising the current shows. The pictures, beautifully hand-painted, told Anne all that she needed to know. There was a comedy, a tragedy, an operetta, and a romance. The tragedy looked particularly intriguing, depicting a man trapped in a glass box, dishevelled and haggard-looking, whilst onlookers pointed and laughed. Anne tugged at W. D.’s elbow, who was in deep conversation with Constantine about some sports team or another.

“What’s that play called?” she asked him, pointing towards the poster.

W. D. squinted, and read the words slowly. “ _Glass . . . houses_ ,” he answered.

“ _Glasshouses_ ,” she repeated, with a small smile. She liked the sound of it. “Wonder what it’s about."

Constantine appeared at her side, eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t know? That’s Phillip Carlyle’s play, the man Barnum hired last night."

To say that Anne was surprised was an understatement. Phillip was a successful playwright, well he must be successful to be on Broadway, and yet he is now working at the circus? Why would he waste his platform here, on arguably the most revered stage in the world, for a couple of jugglers, fire-eaters and acrobats? She thought about his attire the previous night, how it had been comprised of a neatly-pressed jacket and bowtie, and how she had suspected him to be well-esteemed even then. Perhaps his show wasn’t doing as well as he hoped and had turned to finding a profit elsewhere. Anne had certainly smelt alcohol on his breath; for all one knew, he could have some sort of drinking problem that was squandering all his money.

Curious, and thirsty for answers, Anne approached one of the vendors selling tickets to the various plays. She interrupted his sales pitch to the public passing by, and worried that he would take one look at her skin and tell her to scram, just as the others had done. However, he appeared amused, and crossed his arms.

“I suppose you’re wanting a ticket?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not sure we sell to your kind."

Anne shook her head, balling her hands into fists. “I was hoping you could tell me who Phillip Carlyle is?” she enquired, as politely as she could muster, despite his racist remarks.

The vendor snorted with laughter, in a derisive manner. Anne could feel her cheeks growing warm with anger. Clearly this man looked down upon her, and found her lack of knowledge comical. “Have you not picked up a newspaper recently?” he sneered. “Phillip Carlyle is New York’s most eligible bachelor. His father’s Senator Howard Carlyle, the real estate mogul and renowned Republican, and his mother is Mathilda Carlyle, heir to a monumental fortune."

Then aback, Anne struggled to let that all sink in. So, clearly Phillip was _not_ short of money. W. D. and Constantine, who were stood behind Anne the whole time, had overheard the conversation. Turning around to face them, she saw her own confusion and suspicion etched in their expressions.

Later that morning, just before lunch, the three of them returned to the circus. Anne held her new tights in her trembling hands, W. D.’s muscular arm over her shoulders, holding her close. Constantine had a furious glint in his eyes, his whole body tense. They all were quiet, but the anger that radiated off the two men spoke for itself. Surrounded by the two towering men, Anne looked tiny.

Barnum saw them walk through the doors, and noticed the hostility immediately. Stricken with worry, he bounds over to them. Forehead creased, he held his hands on his hips. Constantine and W. D. stopped, however Anne carried on. She made her way to the dressing room she shared with a few of the other women, without saying a word.

“What’s happened?” Barnum asked, when he thinks Anne is out of earshot.

Constantine and W. D. glance at each other. “The shopkeeper refused to serve Anne or me, so Constantine had to buy the tights,” W. D. began, his voice a little shaky. “However, as Anne waited outside, a wagon full of the local college boys passed. They saw Anne, and jumped out. Called her names, pushed her around, pulled at her clothes. She hit one of them, and they would have hit back if we hadn’t ran out in time."

Barnum felt sick. No matter how hard he tried to shelter Anne and the others inside the circus, there was nothing he could do to protect them when they stepped outside. “She’s alright though, isn’t she?” he asked, anxiously. “I mean, she’s not hurt?"

W. D. shook his head. “Just shaken."

“We can cancel the performance, give her some time to rest?” Barnum offered, thinking about what was best for her.

“She won’t like that,” W. D. sighed, though was grateful for the suggestion. “Anne won’t want to feel like a burden. She’ll go on."

Meanwhile, Anne held back the tears as she passed a couple of the acts attempting to put up a new curtain. Phillip was among them, sleeves rolled up, looking like a real handyman. _But I know the truth_ , Anne thought, bitterly. This was all fun and games for him. He spotted Anne, and waved over to her, grinning.

“Did you get everything you needed?” he called out to her.

Exhausted, Anne merely held up her tights, and disappeared into her dressing room. Finding the room empty, she allowed the emotions to spill out of her, as she slid down to the floor. She rarely let herself show emotion in such a vulnerable and naked way, instead choosing to bottle it all up. As convenient as that was for her usually, on the occasion that everything all became too much for her, it would often erupt, and she would have no control over the tears. She always made sure she was alone though, as she wasn’t sure how she would handle somebody’s sympathy, or piteous looks. That’s why moments like this, alone in the dressing room, were so precious.

She just prayed that nobody would come in after her.


	6. "I belong here."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne finds herself being comforted by somebody unexpected, and confides with them more than she intended to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is short, but I wasn't even intending to write it until I read the comments, and realised that Anne couldn't be left alone, sobbing, in the dressing room. I hope you enjoy this!

* * *

When Anne heard the door creak open, she hurried to wipe the tears stains from her face, and tried to compose herself. Rushing to her feet, she turned to see who had followed her into the dressing room, half expecting to see her brother. Instead, she saw the concerned face of Charity Barnum, the last person she had expected to see, though still as beautiful ever, in a simple yellow dress, her golden hair loose.

“Is there . . . something I can do for you, Mrs Barnum?” Anne mustered, through broken sobs. She clutched at her cardigan, finding little solace in the scratchy fabric.

The woman gave Anne a small and sweet smile, shaking her head. Anne could tell from the tender and condoling way Charity was looking at her, as if she were going to break like a porcelain doll, that she knew what had happened. The tension left Anne’s shoulders, and she felt her sobs escape her throat, as Charity bound over to her, arms wide. She didn’t hesitate to wrap Anne up in her embrace, despite the considerable height difference between the pair. After a short while, Anne pulled away, though reluctant to leave Charity’s affectionate touch.

“When was the last time you were hugged, Anne?” Charity asked, searching the girl’s eyes. “Your brother doesn’t count."

It didn’t take Anne long to figure out her answer. Her lip quivered, and another tear fell onto her cheek. “It’s been a while,” she said, in a feeble voice.

Charity could swear her heart broke as the words left Anne’s trembling lips. This poor girl, usually so composed and strong, had finally shattered. Instead of seeking comfort from her brother, or Lettie, or any of the other acts who would have been more than welcoming to listen to Anne’s troubles, she suffered in silence, alone. Fearing that Anne would tumble over, her limbs wobbling, threatening to give way, Charity sat her down on the fading velvet chaise lounge. She took out her own handkerchief, a pretty little thing, one of the first gifts P. T. ever gave to her, and handed it to Anne. The girl took it, graciously, and dabbed at her eyes.

“It’s silly really,” Anne finally sighed, after she found her voice. “I don’t expect anything different from them."

“Them . . . ?” Charity inquired, softly.

Slightly embarrassed, Anne took her time stringing a sentence together. “The public . . . outside."

“You mean the white people?” Charity offered.

Anne nodded, catching her breath. “Not you, of course, or Mr Barnum. There are some exceptions, I know that,” she quickly pointed out. “But the majority can barely stomach me, or others like _me_. All my life, no stranger has ever smiled at me. They've only ever treated me as something they’ve found on the bottom of their shoe. They're not capable of extending me kindness. Not until I joined the circus. I belong here."

“You enjoy it, don’t you? Being up in the air,” Charity beamed.

Anne’e eyes sparkled, a mixture of adoration and tears catching on the light. “There ain’t a better feeling,” she replied.

“How long have you and W. D. been performing your act? I must say, I’ve never seen anything quite like it."

Anne knew that to answer the question would be to give something away about her past. Was she ready to let somebody in? The whole reason why Anne and W. D. were so quiet about their childhood was because they worried people would see them differently. See them as damaged, or weak. They loved their act, performing gravity-defying tricks in the air, because it meant that they were thought of as strong, and capable, and brave. Yet, that facade was growing wearisome. Anne was struggling to keep herself together, to not let the cracks show. Here sat Charity, warm and gentle, and Anne knew that she wouldn’t judge.

“We were sold to a circus when I was eight, and W. D. was fourteen,” Anne began. Charity tried not to show her surprise at the mention of the term ‘sold’, gulping. "We were meant to be stagehands, helping do odd-jobs backstage. You know, cleaning, mending, fixing, sending messages. Anyway, me and W. D. were fascinated by this brother and sister duo, who would perform stunts on aerial hoops, and bars, and ropes. Maksim and Katya, they were called. After we finished all our work for the day, they would teach us tricks, starting with the basics. Well, we were naturals. A year later the ringleader set us free on the condition we took Maksim and Katya’s places when they returned to Russia."

Charity smiled, despite her initial shock. She should have known. Known that was why Anne and W. D. didn’t speak of their past. “What about your parents?" She didn’t want to pry, but she had to ask.

Not wanting to close herself up to Charity, who was only being kind, Anne took a deep breath. “Daddy was killed, and I don’t know if mama’s still at the plantation,” she answered, and then added in a shaky voice; “I know my birth father’s white, but I don’t know who he is. Mama never said."

Nothing Charity could say would ease the situation, so she instead reached out and held Anne’s hand. She gave her a reassuring squeeze, and Anne beamed, watery-eyed. Suddenly, the door flung open, and two giggling girls came bounding in, pigtails flying. Rushing to dry her tears, Anne plastered on a fake smile, greeting Caroline and Helen Barnum. It wasn’t that fake; they were both wearing the infamous ‘Lettie Lutz Beard’, with pride. They clambered over their mother and Anne, eager to show them the new merchandise.

Anne spotted something moving out of the corner of her eye. Turning to look towards the door, which was still ajar, she caught the pacing figure of Phillip Carlyle, who appeared to be indecisive on whether he should enter the dressing room or not. Frowning, Anne worried that he had overheard Charity and her’s conversation.

“Anne, Anne,” the youngest, Helen, tugged on Anne’s buttons. She was nine years old, and still had a plump face with rosy cheeks. She was so darling, and hard to say no to. “Can you show me and Caroline some tricks?"

“We want to fly like you!” Caroline added, enthusiastically.

Chuckling, Anne looked across at Charity, who seemed apprehensive. “It’ll be safe, I promise,” she assured their mother, as Helen bounced up and down in her lap. “Just the basics."

Reaching out to stroke her daughter’s hair, Charity smiled. “If they want to,” she replied, with a twinkle in her eye. “You never know, they could be naturals. Could be joining you this time next year."

Anne laughed, and stood up, smoothening her dress down. She allowed the girls to drag her out of the dressing room, their hands in hers, both equally as eager and excited. She knocked into Phillip, who’s brow was knitted into a worried line, much like her brother would sometimes appear. He reached out and placed a hand on Anne’s forearm, clearly meant to be a comforting gesture, but instead sent shivers down her spine. Sensing her discomfort, he removed his hand, and Anne was surprised by how poignantly she felt it’s absence.

“I wasn’t listening in, I promise,” he apologised, and though her gut instinct was to distrust him, Anne couldn’t help but believe him. “Constantine told me what happened, and I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” Even as he spoke his eyes were raking over her appearance, not in a lecherous or unpleasant way, but to make sure they weren’t any cuts or bruises.

“I’m fine,” she told him, more brusquely than she intended. She saw his hurt expression, and immediately felt guilty, and was about to thank him for his concern, when Caroline jerked her sideways, giggling. She didn’t break eye contact with him as the girls led her to the stage, where her beloved ropes awaited them. However, she had to look away when Helen began to swing upside down on the rope, impatiently.

Phillip watched as Anne shed her dress, her workout clothes underneath. His breath hitched in his throat as she slid the material up her slender body, baring her legs first. As she pulled the dress over her head, her curls fell free, falling about her face. She was left in a pair of scarlet shorts with white and gold trim, and matching white chiffon slip. He smiled as she threw off, quite literally, her shoes, making the girls giggle. She then began some easy stretches, such as touching her toes and flexing her arms, as the girls copied her.

Charity came and stood beside him, arms crossed, watching with joy as her daughters fell about laughing when Anne pretended not to notice the giant hoop behind her. Despite barely having her own childhood, Anne was very good with the Barnum daughters, who had grown to see her as a sister, of sorts. Glancing over at Phillip, she smirked when she saw the infatuation in his expression, eyes never leaving Anne.

“She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?” Charity inquired, nonchalantly, waiting for Phillip’s response.

He nodded. “I’ve never seen anybody like her,” he admitted. “But she’s a closed book. I don’t know anything about her."

Sympathising with him, she sighed. “Phillip, have you heard her accent? She’s from the South,” Charity explained. That statement weighed heavily on Phillip, who had been too transparent to read into it before. Black people from the South . . . there was only one reason for that. Suddenly her frosty attitude made sense, and Phillip could barely imagine what horrors she’d had to have endured. “Be patient with her. She’ll let you in if she wants to, but you can’t rush her."


	7. "But honey, a smile costs nothing."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a conversation with Lettie, Anne is left reconsidering her behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I know this has taken forever, but it's finally here, and I hope to get the next chapter up very soon....
> 
> Thank you all so much for the support, I love reading everybody's comments! They really inspire me to keep going. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

Anne loved Lettie’s newfound confidence. This had been a woman who hid herself away inside a laundrette, keeping herself to herself, despite harbouring this immense talent. Anne saw herself, somewhat, reflected in the singer. Both were woman of colour, both grown up taught to keep their heads down, both with a passion for performing. Lettie was twice Anne’s age, but that didn’t stop the pair from becoming close friends, confidantes even. When Anne found that there were certain things she couldn’t tell her brother, she would turn to Lettie. Never one to judge, Lettie would listen to Anne’s troubles, and offer sound advice that, more often that not, would actually fix the situation.

In spite of their hectic schedules, with trapeze practice, costume fittings, song and dance rehearsals among many of their daily chores, Anne and Lettie took over the roles of seamstresses, mending the other acts clothes when needed. With Lettie’s experience in the laundrette, and Anne’s lessons from her mama, they were the easy choice - rather than risking paying somebody else to do it all.

Even though it meant more work, and less free time, Anne felt she rather enjoyed her work with a needle and thread, as it meant she could sit and talk with Lettie. Whether it was mindless chatter or having deep and meaningful conversations, she cherished their time together.

They’d chosen to set up work in the balcony, where they’d have a clear view of the goings-on downstairs, but be far away enough to not be overheard. Below them were Illya Khoroshko - the scaled man from Russia, Constantine, Timothy Banks - a juggler from Columbus, Ohio, Nnemoma Wilson - a fire-breather with Nigerian parents, W. D., and even Phillip, lifting and moving the apparatus needed for that night’s show. This involved a bed of nails, two podiums, a spinning wheel, and of course, Anne’s hoop.

Despite the taxing job of trying to sew a rather fiddly set of sequins into her lilac leotard, Anne found herself becoming distracted by the figures below them, in particular Phillip Carlyle. Recently he had taken to wearing a loose-fitting white shirt, and beige trousers, his hair untamed. Anne felt her breath hitch in her throat as she watched him carry a podium across the stage. He was clearly very strong, lifting the props without hassle, his muscles in his back flexing. The tense, defined lines were visible through the ivory cotton. Attention divided, she pricked herself in the finger with the needle point, as Phillip ran a hand through his tousled locks.

Sucking on the throbbing digit, blood tasting like copper, Anne tried not to meet Lettie’s eyes, who was watching her intently. Lettie peered down to the stage, where she saw Phillip. Pursing her lips, Lettie smirked.

“That’s a man right there,” Lettie remarked, waiting for Anne’s reaction. “ _A mighty fine man_."

Blushing, Anne busied herself with retreading the needle. “I find him rather full of himself,” she muttered. Even as she said the words, she knew she didn’t mean it. Lettie did too.

“Phillip Carlyle is nothing but selfless, and you know that,” she scolded her, much like a mother would. “I think you’re afraid of what’ll happen if you let yourself feel something for that boy."

Her chest tightened, as her heart started to thump erratically. Her cheeks were hot, and she felt nervous, just as she would before performing a new trick. Lettie, as always, was right. Anne was scared by how Phillip made her feel; anxious, feverish, and inspired. She had never met anybody as handsome as he was, with as beautiful a heart to match. No man looked at her the way he did, as though she was worthy of all the kindness and admiration that she’d been denied all her life. When their eyes would meet, Anne would lose herself just a little bit more, giving her heart unwillingly to him in tiny pieces. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to think about him in that way; as anything more than the man who paid her wages.

“Phillip likes you, he really likes you,” Lettie explained. “In spite of you barely saying two words to him, and scowling every time he enters the room."

Anne frowned. “I ain’t a fool, Lettie,” she sighed, setting the needle down. She had lost concentration, and would only have to unpick all the stitches and start again if she continued the way she was going. “I can’t pretend like everything is gonna be alright. Every time I’m around him, I’m risking my . . . my heart. By holding him at arm’s length, I’m protecting myself, that’s all. He’ll lose interest and look elsewhere, and then we’ll both be much happier for it."

Lettie reached out and placed a warm and gentle hand on Anne’s own calloused one. The downside to spending half your lifetime climbing robes and swinging on bars means sacrificing soft skin. “Anne dear, that’s no way to live,” she said, in a tender voice. “One of the wonderful things about working here is that we don’t have to be ashamed of who we are anymore. If you don’t want to fall in love with him, then don’t. Keep your distance. But, honey, a smile costs nothing."

Anne wanted to argue that a mere smile _could_ cost her everything, when she heard her name boomed across the theatre. Peering down, she saw P. T. stood with his arms crossed, smiling. He gestured for her to come down, so she set her work aside and climbed up onto the bannister. Lettie gasped, and P. T.’s expression changed into one of horror. The others were all staring up at her, mouths agape and eyes wide.

“Anne, be careful!” P. T. called up to her.

Behind her, Lettie was also trying to talk her down. Grinning, Anne relished in proving to people that she was tougher than she looked. She jumped, earning a collective gasp from the audience she had acquired, and savoured the elation of soaring through the air, until her hands found the rope, and she swung across the room. Landing at P. T.’s feet, barely out of breath, she beamed. P. T., who loved theatrics and flair, laughed, even applauded her. However, she caught sight of her brother behind P. T.’s shoulders. W. D. shook his head, looking disappointed.

“Do you think you could incorporate that into the show, Anne?” P. T. suggested. “It’d certainly get the crowd going."

Anne nodded. “I’ll see what I can do,” she replied, still conscious of W. D.’s discontentment.

“Now, Charity told me you wanted to ask me something?” P. T. continued.

“Yes, there was. Me and W. D. were wondering if there was a chance we could have our wages early this week, please?” she inquired, politely. “Just, we ain’t got enough money for the rent, and if we can’t pay our rent, we’ll be evicted."

Frowning, P. T. placed a hand to his chin. “Where is it you two live?"

Feeling slightly ashamed, Anne looked down at her feet, shuffling uncomfortably. “Um . . . the Lower East Side,” she murmured.

“The slums?” P. T. exclaimed, sounding shocked. Anne nodded, gulping. “No, that won’t do. You and W. D. won’t have to worry about paying that rent anymore. We’re renovating the top floors, here, at the circus. You and all the other acts can have free boarding. You’re certainly entitled to it."

Unsure of what to say, Anne snapped her head up to look at P. T., dumbstruck. Instead, she threw her arms around him, euphoric, filled with admiration for the ringleader. P. T. laughed, hugging Anne back. When she broke apart from him, she found him beaming at her. “Don’t thank me, it was Phillip’s idea,” he admitted, to Anne’s astonishment. Phillip? He was certainly full of surprises.

Anne bound over to W. D., who was taking a sip of water, Phillip stood next to him. He scowled when he saw his sister, and shook his head. “You don’t need to show off like that,” he scolded her, with a stern expression.

Rolling her eyes, Anne waved it off. “That don’t matter,” she began, ignoring W. D.’s objections. “Mr Barnum’s gonna renovate the top floors, make them into rooms. W. D. - he’s gonna let us stay here, rent free."

All his frustration seemed to evaporate, and W. D. broke out into a wide grin. He enveloped Anne in a hug, kissing her forehead. Anne looked over at Phillip, who seemed unsure what to do with himself in the situation. Anne pulled away from her brother, taking a deep breath. “Phillip,” she said, in a soft voice. He turned to face her, clearly taken aback by her choice to talk to him. Lettie was right; she had been cold with him. “Thank you. Barnum told me it was your idea. If you hadn’t of suggested it, me and W. D. would have been on the streets again within a week."

She even smiled at him. When he smiled back, she knew that she was gone. Phillip Carlyle had her heart completely.


	8. "Are we all invited?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip delivers some unbelievable news, news that Anne thinks is too good to be true.

* * *

“The shame of the city,” P. T. began, holding the _New York Herald_ in his hands, reading the latest review of their circus with wide eyes. Charity sat beside him, ever the supportive wife, resting her head on his shoulder. "The protests commend Mr Barnum’s reputation as a purveyor of the offensive and indecent."

The troupe had all gathered, listening intently to James Gordon Bennett’s words with disgust and anger. Anne sat on a podium, legs crossed, wearing her workout clothes, her treasured satin shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She was wearing a pair of golden boots, an addition to her costume that she adored. She tried not to look offended by the nasty remarks in Bennett’s review, but it was more easier said than done, as insult after insult was hurled at them all.

Lettie, who was sat in-between Anne and her brother, snorted. “ _Offensive and indecent_?” she repeated, unashamedly combing her beard. “Mr Bennett, I’m blushing."

The eldest Barnum daughter, Caroline, jumped up, donning her matching Lettie beard, and flipped her hair. “No, I’m blushing!” she exclaimed, much to the amusement of all those around her.

Taking note of her daughter’s carefree attitude, Charity turned to P. T, folding her skirts over her lap. “What do you care what Mr Bennett thinks?” she asked her husband.

“He’s a prig,” Lettie pointed out.

“And a snob,” Charles added. Despite being the smallest member, he certainly had no problem making his voice heard.

P. T. sighed, setting the newspaper down with a huff. “Yes, and all the snobs in New York read him. He does their thinking for them.” The realisation of P. T.’s statement weighed heavily on the troupe, who all knew that he was right. If these words were being read by all the high society folk all over New York, then word would be spreading. Rumours and whispers about Barnum’s Circus would be flying all over the city, all of it wildly inaccurate and remarkably degrading. More scandals would bring more protestors, and more protestors would mean more abuse.

“Whatever happened to thriving off controversy?” Anne suggested, optimistically.

Unfortunately, P. T. didn’t seem to share her hopefulness. He looked exhausted. “Yes, well . . . “ he trailed off as Phillip appeared, dressed in fine clothes for the first time in weeks, a top hat in one hand, and a note in the other. Anne couldn’t ignore the way her heartbeat hastened as Phillip walked in, and nor would she allow herself to make eye contact. She caught a whiff of cologne, the pleasant kind gentlemen would wear, and tried not to become overwhelmed by the scent. Suddenly conscious of how she looked, she patted down her hair, to no prevail. The curls were untameable.

“Phillip!” both Barnum daughters cried, running to him. They threw themselves around his legs, and he laughed, greeting them kindly and warmly. Anne couldn’t help but smile.

“Do you have any thoughts on this?” P. T. asked, holding up the newspaper.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Phillip replied, handing the ringleader the letter.

Curious, the troupe all leaned in as P. T. read yet another set of words, this time with a much more esteemed name printed at the bottom. “Master of the household has it in command that . . . the Queen invites Mr P. T. Barnum and his theatrical troupe to a reception at . . . Buckingham Palace?"

Everybody jumped to their feet, jaws dropped to the floor. Nobody could believe their ears. It had to be a joke? A cruel, insensitive farce made at the expensive of the oddities, for why would a palace invite a circus to perform for a Queen? Not even New York theatre critics enjoyed their show, let alone royalty.

“Queen Victoria? Is this real?” Charity spluttered, reading the letter of P. T.’s shoulder.

“I had to pull a few strings,” Phillip replied, modestly. Anne gulped - this was just another reminder of how far up the ladder Phillip was, whilst she was perched right at the very bottom. What kind of playwright-turned-circus partner has connections in Buckingham Palace? A very well-established and wealthy one, she thought to herself. “If you want society to accept you, may as well start at the very top."

As Phillip lifts Caroline up, stroking her false beard to make her laugh, Anne sought out her brother, who was already looking at her, his brow creased in a worrying expression. She could feel her heart sinking, and knew that W. D. was thinking the exact same thing; would the Queen care for coloured acts? Many a ringleader had turned them away for the colour of their skin, afraid of what the public might think. She wouldn’t be surprised if the Queen of England shared the same distaste for her skin, as many others did. Racism existed worldwide.

“Are we _all_ invited?” Anne asked, in a confident voice despite her deteriorating facade. The other acts who were of different ethnicities ceased their celebrating as the proposition dawned on them fully. Lettie looked over at Anne, and back at P. T., waiting for him to offer them encouragement. He wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure how to reassure them.

Phillip did. Anne watched as his smile faltered, and then returned, brighter than before. “I guess I’ll just have to tell the Queen either all of us go, or none of us will."

Smiling, Anne felt a surge of warmth shoot through her body, as Phillip’s words reverberated through her mind. Did he really think that highly of them all? That he would risk jeopardising a visit to Buckingham Palace because the Queen opposed to a handful of African-American circus acts? He beamed back at her, and she felt the butterflies again, raging inside her chest.

“The Queen of England? Can’t get much better than that,” Charles cried, grinning.

Phillip span Caroline around in his arms, causing her to giggle. Helen tugged at his coattails until he eventually swooped down and picked her up in his arms, twirling them both around. Anne was mesmerised by Phillip’s natural way with the girls, as though he were their big brother. Waving at her, Helen called Anne’s name, telling her to watch.

“I’m watching, baby, I’m watching,” Anne laughed.

As the rest of the troupe began to spill out, disappearing upstairs to their rooms, or backstage to prepare for the show that night, W. D. came and stood by Anne’s side. He placed an arm around her shoulder, and squeezed. She was still watching Phillip with the little girls, a smile playing on her lips. Their laughter was infectious.

“That took guts, Annie,” W. D. told her, proudly. “Sticking up for us."

Furrowing her brow, Anne shook her head. “I only asked if we were invited,” she explained. “Us being black and all."

“There’d have been a time when you’d have assumed we weren’t going, and kept quiet."

Anne realised that W. D. was right. Being in this environment, surrounded by likeminded people that looked like her, and were passionate about the same things, it had an impact on her. A profound one. Not only had she found courage to speak her mind, but she was starting to trust that others had belief in her too.

Suddenly, Helen sped over and leapt into Anne’s arms. Years of trapeze practice meant that Anne had very quick reflexes, and good upper body strength, which all came into good use when one of the Barnum daughters would throw themselves at her. Hoisting her up, Anne held the nine year old, who began chattering away about her day at school, when she noticed the marvellous, satin shawl Anne was wearing. Eyes lighting up, Helen caressed the soft fabric, as Phillip made his way over, Caroline pulling him along.

“This is lovely,” she cooed.

“Thank you, it was a gift,” Anne replied, smiling fondly at the girl.

“Whoever gave you it must love you very much,” Caroline chimed in.

“It was my mama’s,” Anne answered, reminiscing on the day her mama gave the shawl to her. She was eight years old, and it had been early spring. Her mama had woke her and W. D. up early that morning, before the sun had risen. Taking her children by the hand, she ran with them to a fence where three men and a woman waited for them, not letting them look back. Anne remembered looking up at the fence, and the odd feeling of fear mingled with excitement as W. D. hoisted her over. Never had Anne been beyond that fence, and she had no idea what to expect on the other side. Her mama hadn’t climbed with them, and instead sobbed as the strangers lifted her children up onto a wagon. It was an impulse, but her mama had taken off her shawl and hastily handed it to the woman, instructing her to wrap Anne up in it before she caught a chill. Anne would never forget the look on her mama’s face as the wagon drove off, that being the last time they’d ever see each other again.

“Where is your mother?” Helen asked, out of curiosity rather than rudeness.

“Helen!” Charity gasped, appearing by their side, P. T. at her shoulder.

“I don’t mind,” Anne said, giving a small smile. “I’m not sure where my mama is. Still in New Orleans, perhaps."

“Is she dead?” Caroline whispered.

“Caroline!” P. T. hissed, eyes wide. “Anne, I’m so sorry."

Anne shook her head. “It’s alright, really,” she assured them, and turned back to the little girls. “I don’t know that either."

The girls hung their heads in sadness, Helen even wrapping her arms around Anne’s neck, in an attempt to comfort her. W. D. rubbed his sister’s back, he himself recalling the last day they had seen their mama. Catching Philip’s eye, she saw not sympathy, but compassion. That little difference meant more to her than she realised, as heart skipped a beat.

Charity gathered up the girls, prising an unwilling Helen off of Anne, who promised to come round for dinner that week. Satisfied with Anne’s answer, Helen left skipping, Caroline not far behind. Smiling, Charity reached out and placed a warm hand on Anne’s own, and assured her that she was more than welcome to visit for dinner, and that she could come that night if she wasn’t busy. W. D. too, if he’d like. Both the Wheeler siblings obliged, happily. They’d never been invited to another person’s house for a meal before.

P. T. kissed his wife, and told her that he’d be home soon, after he’s finished typing up some last minute paperwork with Phillip in their office. As the pair of them said farewell to the Wheeler’s, Anne stepped forward and halted them in their tracks.

“I was wondering . . . is the Queen expecting all of us to perform?” Anne asked, remembering what her brother said; about how there’d have been a time when she’d have kept quiet. No longer. “I mean, would she be comfortable with it? Us being black and all."

Phillip smiled at her, the kind of smile that made her feel weak at the knees, and held out the letter to her. "It’s all here, if you’d like to take a look,” he said, only trying to be nice. However, the gesture made Anne feel embarrassed, who could only take the letter, and look between the piece of paper and Phillip. Knitting his brow, he looked confused. “Have I done something to offend you, Anne?"

She shook her head, not wanting to let him believe he was in the wrong, but unsure of how to explain the situation. Her eyes skimmed the page, unable to take in the words. They were all nothing but scribbles, incomprehensible ink stains she could barely make head or tail of. “Anne can’t read,” W. D. eventually answered, delicately. “And I ain’t much better. I’m slow, and only know the basics."

When Anne saw the surprised expression on Phillip’s face, she wished that W. D. hadn’t of said anything. She handed him the letter back, suddenly uncomfortable under his gaze. “I’ll take your word for it,” she muttered, and was about to walk away, when Phillip reached out and took a hold of her wrist. She gasped, unable to contain her shock at their contact.

“I can teach you,” he spluttered, his hand still clasped around her wrist. It was strong, she could feel how powerful his hand was, and yet his touch was soft. She looked down at his hand, heart hammering away inside her chest. He pulled away, and Anne swore she could see him blush.

“Teach me to read?” Anne asked, amazed at his offer.

Phillip nodded. “I’m a playwright, I love reading,” he explained, humbly. Still unsure, Anne hesitated. However, Phillip was persistent. “Please, it really would be no trouble. I want to help."

There was something so sincere and genuine in Phillip’s voice, and appearance, that Anne felt her resolve melt away. She nodded, even smiling a little. “I’d appreciate that, Mr Carlyle,” she told him, ignoring her brother’s glare out of the corner of her eye. The way Phillip’s face lit up as she gave her answer made up for W. D.’s disapproval.


	9. "What about you, Anne? What's your story?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne attends a meal at the Barnum's, and old memories are resurfaced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter feels like it's taken ages to be written, but I promise you it'll be worth it. This is by far the longest chapter I've written yet, and definitely the most dramatic. It's quite harrowing, to say the least, so if you're easily offended I suggest there are some parts that you skip. There are mentions of slavery, and death, so just a quick warning.
> 
> Thank you for all the kind words about this story, I love hearing what you think about it.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Anne didn’t own many nice things. She had two dresses; a plain grey one, and a light blue one, a fading blue cardigan, a pair of golden boots, some black flats, her mama’s silk shawl, her workout clothes, and of course her show outfit, including her pink wig. That was all. Most of the time, she didn’t mind. She reminded herself that she had much more than many others, and she wasn’t one to be jealous of those who had more than her.

However, after Charity’s invite, she found herself looking at the two dresses laying out on her bed, with disappointment. W. D. was sat on his bed, stretching his aching muscles. He had pulled a tendon in practice, and while it wasn’t serious enough to precent him from performing the next night, he couldn’t risk walking all the way to the Barnum’s. Instead, he was staying in to elevate and ice the injury, warily letting Anne go by herself. He’d rather she didn’t go out without him by her side, but she had told him a promise was a promise.

Her hair was pinned up, though after her painstaking effort to make the hairstyle look neat and polished as was the fashion, a few curls had fallen out. She had raided each of the vanity chests of each of the female acts, asking to borrow Nnemoma's rouge, or Grace’s mascara, or Weronika’s perfume. Still, she din’t feel complete. Her dresses were nice, but not _dinner-at-the-Barnum’s_ nice. She stood, in her workout clothes, and sighed.

Lettie appeared in the doorway, and cocked her head. “What’s wrong, child?” she asked, sweetly.

“I ain’t got anything to wear for dinner,” Anne answered, though she despised the words as they left her lips. She sounded so much like the high-society girls that would turn their noses up at her in the street, some even going as far as to cross the path to get away from her.

Lettie sympathised, however, and gestured for the girl to follow her. She led her into a large room, that stored all of their costumes. Anne’s eyes lit up, and she beamed. She hadn’t thought about the circus wardrobe. Of course, some of the outfits were a little risqué for supper, Anne’s pink leotard for one, but there were plenty of other beautiful costumes to choose from. Running her fingertips across the assortment of fabrics, Anne found one immediately. She held it out to Lettie, who’s jaw dropped.

Ten minutes later, after ushering W. D. out of their room, and asking Lettie to wait in the hallway, Anne opened the door, wearing her new outfit. She was surprised to see a crowd had gathered, and felt a little flustered. She was clad in a white blouse, that was fitted, and a burgundy skirt. They all shared their admiration of the clothes, and of Anne, smiling and grinning. W. D. placed a kiss on his sister’s forehead, telling her she looked lovely.

Full of confidence, she left the circus, her shawl around her shoulders, and made her way to the Barnum’s. Reciting the directions P. T. had given her, over and over in her head, Anne tried to hail a streetcar. Stood on the curb, she held out one hand, the other rustling around in her pocket to try and find some change. However, when the streetcar pulled up beside her, the driver took one look at her and scoffed. Anne barely had the chance to beg the man to allow her on, when he drove off, leaving her in the dust.

Feeling her heart sink, Anne considered just going back into the circus. She had forty minutes to get to the Barnum's, and their house was all the way on the other side of New York. It was impossible. The sun had already set.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of horse’s hooves on the cobbles, and turned to find the source. A carriage was approaching her, a man sat in the back. As it neared, she spotted Phillip Carlyle, dressed in fine clothes, a top-hat perched on his head. If Anne had been a lady, she would have swooned. However, she was a circus performer, a coloured one at that, and so hesitated.

* * *

Phillip could recognise Anne anywhere. She was stood on the curb by the circus, arm outstretched. The streetlamp cast a golden light over her, illuminating her face. Her hair was pinned up, though a few chestnut curls cascaded down her face, and the nape of her neck. Her lips were parted, and painted a soft wine colour. Cheeks glowing, and eyes bright, she radiated. She was wearing something new, the skirts a burgundy colour, though the top half was obstructed by her beloved satin shawl.

Unable to tear his eyes from her, he instructed his driver to approach Anne, as a streetcar drove away, Anne calling after it. He felt awful for her, as her expression fell. Leaping out of the carriage as soon as he could, he bound to her, startling her somewhat.

“Are you off to the Barnum’s?” Phillip asked her, a certain enthusiasm in his voice that he couldn’t suppress.

“I would be, if only one of these streetcars would let me on,” Anne answered, huffing, looking deflated.

Phillip opened the door to the carriage, and gestured for Anne to hop on. “Then allow me to escort you, Miss Wheeler,” he said, in the most gentlemanly fashion.

“People will see you with me,” she told him, narrowing her eyes.

He shrugged. “I’m only offering you a lift, what’s the harm in that?"

As always, she was reluctant to trust him. “It ain't my reputation that they’ll whisper about,” she pointed out.

“I haven’t much of a reputation these days,” he grinned. She laughed, then covered her mouth as if she felt guilty for laughing at him. It didn’t bother Phillip; in fact, he loved her laugh. It was just as pretty as she was. “Come on, I think the horses are getting restless.”

Grinning, Anne climbed the steps. Phillip offered her a hand, which she took. She caught his eye, and he feared he would drown in her chestnut orbs. Her touch was electric, quite literally sending sparks down his body. She let go first, and he climbed in next to her. The back of the carriage was cramped, forcing the pair of them to sit rather close to one another. He could feel her breathing, and it was just as unsteady as his.

The driver cracked the whip, and Anne flinched.

They were silent for a while, and Phillip noticed Anne fiddling with her hands. He smirked. In the month he had known her, he had time to observe all the little details about her, one of them being her inability to sit still. He waited patiently for her to speak first, knowing that everything had to be on her terms, at her pace.

“Thank you again, for the reading lessons,” she finally said, looking across at him.

“Really, it’s no trouble,” he assured her. “In truth, I’d quite like to spend time with you."

Phillip saw Anne blush, and he resisted the urge to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Well, I feel like I need to give you something in return, to show my appreciation,” she continued.

Pausing to consider her offer, Phillip beamed. “Trapeze lessons,” he suggested. “I’ve often said to myself that I’d quite like to do what you and W. D. do, all those tricks and flips."

Anne laughed, and then nodded. “Trapeze lessons it is then,” she chuckled. “Though I can’t promise to turn you into a professional."

* * *

They arrive half an hour later at the Barnum house. Phillip had grown up attending dinner after dinner, ball after ball at many aristocrats houses, so P. T.’s country mansion was nothing more than a house to him. However, he watched as Anne’s eyes widened, overcome with awe. She was speechless. Phillip wondered what was running through her mind.

He stepped out of the carriage first, and held out a hand to her. She smiled, somewhat shyly, at him, and took it, gratefully. He could feel her trembling, ever so slightly.

“Are you cold?” he asked her, as she reached the ground. “Would you like my jacket?"

Taken aback by his generous offer, Anne shook her head. “That’s very kind Mr Carlyle,” she thanked him. Looking down she noticed she was still holding his hand. She slipped her hand out of his grip, and Phillip couldn’t help but remark on how well they had fit together. “I’m not cold, just nervous."

Frowning, Phillip held his arm out to Anne, who regarded it with caution. He took her hand, gently, and looped it through his arm. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, escorting a lady, but it was clear Anne wasn’t used to many gentleman. She seemed a little tense, looking up at Phillip, and then at the driver, as though she was worried he would say something. “Why are you nervous?” Phillip inquired, as they began their walk to the house.

“I ain’t been to a house this big in . . . a long time,” she breathed, shakily.

Phillip hoped she didn’t mean what he thought she meant; a plantation. Though, he thought back to what Charity had told him, about Anne being Southern, and he knew deep down exactly where Anne was from. A lump had risen in his throat, and his mouth suddenly felt very dry. Mustering enough confidence for the both of them, he squeezed her hand reassuringly. “There is nothing to worry about here,” he promised her, in a soft voice. “They’ll welcome you with open arms, you know that."

True to his word, the door flung open, and P. T. and Charity Barnum appeared, beaming, arms outstretched. They embraced the pair, taking their coats, shawls and top-hat. Charity threw her arms around Anne, telling her she looked lovely.

“Oh my dear, don’t you just look stunning?” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together. “Phillip, doesn’t she look stunning?"

Phillip, who had been shaking P. T.’s hand, turned to face Anne and Charity. Now in proper light, he saw Anne completely. Her beauty took his breath away. She was looking back at him, waiting for his response, apprehensively. “She always does,” was all he could get out, captivated by her.

They were ushered into the dining room, where the table was already laid, candlesticks lit and cutlery gleaming. Anne looked a little out of her depth, sitting next to Phillip and across from P. T., her eyes roaming the array of food on display. There was soup to start, with freshly baked bread rolls - handmade by Caroline and Helen especially for that evening.

Eager to dig in, Anne found herself glancing between the different types of spoons laid out in front of her. Sensing her confusion, Phillip leaned over and pointed to the right one. He then proceeded to explain that you eat from the outside in, in terms of cutlery. She smiled, grateful for his help, though blushed a little.

“Don’t worry, I still get confused with which is which sometimes,” P. T. said, with a glint in his eye. “You see, I wasn’t born into . . . _all this_. My father was a tailor, and we lived in on the Lower East Side of Manhattan too."

Phillip was shocked. P. T., a man who seemingly had everything, came from the slums? His parents despised ‘new money’, clinging to the tradition of inheritance and arranged marriages. Claimed 'new money' wouldn’t last, that it was just a phase. Yet, sitting across from P. T., Phillip couldn’t help but disagree.

“As a matter of fact, the girls were born there, in a bedsit much like the one you were perhaps living in, Anne. It wasn’t until a month ago that we bought this place,” P. T. continued, looking around the dining room with a sense of pride. He then turned to his wife, and reached out to hold her hand. “Charity, however, was born in a house just like this. As were you, I suppose Phillip?"

Swallowing a spoonful of soup, Phillip nodded, somewhat ashamed. “I’m afraid so,” he sighed. “Not far from here, actually."

Charity raised an eyebrow. “How is it that a Carlyle such as yourself found himself writing plays on Broadway? I can’t imagine Senator Howard Carlyle took to kindly to his son writing for a living."

Shaking his head, Phillip grinned. “He certainly didn’t. He still wouldn’t, if I wasn’t so successful,” he admitted. He dabbed the corner of his mouth with the napkin, and set his spoon down. “The plan was to go into business. Father had arranged everything for me; my courses at Harvard, my professors, my internship. However, I never much enjoyed the thought of sitting at a desk, day-in, day-out, crunching numbers and plotting graphs - or whatever it is businessmen do. Instead, when I arrived at Harvard, I changed my courses. Took English Literature instead. I loved reading and writing - I still do, I suppose. Always had my head in book as a child. I wasn’t sure whether it was plausible career choice, however, until I met my dorm mate. His name was Henry Adams - "

“The grandson of President John Quincy Adams?” Charity recounted, excitedly. Phillip had forgotten that Charity had once rotated in high society circles, and would of course be familiar with all the well-established and well-esteemed families.

“And the great-grandson of founding father John Adams,” Phillip added. “Well, we both had a passion for writing. We would often stay up late, sat at our typewriters, competing to see who could a chapter finished first. He encouraged me to sell my first play when I was twenty-one, in 1857. That was five years ago, and I’ve been writing ever since."

Phillip caught Anne’s eye, and couldn’t quite read the expression written on her face. She had been listening, intently, hanging on to every single word.

“That’s incredible,” P. T. exclaimed, grinning. “Twenty-six years old, and already a national treasure. I knew I saw something in you when I hired you. Tenacity - I saw tenacity."

As they began dishing up their main course, which consisted of roast chicken, potatoes, parsnips, carrots, and gravy, the conversation turned to to Anne.

“What about you, Anne?” P. T. asked, lathering his dinner plate with lashings of gravy. “What’s your story? I don’t think I know a single thing about you."

Both Charity and Phillip looked up from their plates to glance between P. T. and Anne, anxiously. They half-expected her not to answer, which would have been perfectly acceptable. They’d have understood why she wouldn’t want to discuss her past. However, she surprised them both by opening her mouth.

“I was born on a plantation in New Orleans,” she began, her voice remarkably steady. “It was 1841, sometime in August. We’re not sure of the day, exactly, nor of W. D.’s. It’s alright though, cause every year we get to pick a new day. Makes it more interesting. I’m twenty, so that makes me the youngest in the circus. My masters were the Wheeler family, Buford and Constance Wheeler if I remember right."

Charity gasped. “As a little girl, our parents would set us up on playdates, hoping we’d become fast friends. I was invited to her wedding, to Buford Wheeler, but I never attended. Couldn’t bring myself to visit somewhere that boasted the most slaves in Louisiana.” She sounded guilty, as the realisation dawned on her.

“There were forty-nine of us when I was there,” Anne recalled, a number that sent shivers down Phillip’s spine. “I lived in a wooden house, no bigger than this room, that I shared with my mama and daddy, W. D., and an elderly man called Kazembe. Daddy and Kazembe built it, when they first arrived at the plantation in 1831. That house was no bigger than this room right here. W. D. was born six years before me, and was already working in the fields by the time I was born."

“You weren’t made to be a slave too, were you? You were just children,” Phillip inquired, furrowing his brow.

Anne nodded, and Phillip cursed his naivety. “I was four when mama began taking me to pick cotton. She was worried that if I didn’t start working, Mr Wheeler would sell me to another plantation. That’s why me and W. D. have kept our last name, you see. So that way mama can find us."

Phillip shuddered. When he thought back to what he was doing at four, he remembered nursery rhymes, and bath time, and bedtime stories. He couldn’t begin to imagine how different Anne’s childhood had been, cramped inside the little wooden house, waking up at the crack of dawn every day to work in a sweltering hot field, for no pay. He admired her strength in retelling the story, though he could see that her hands had begun to tremble again.

“When I was eight years old, the two Wheeler daughters came and found me, washing in the stream. They were twins, and a good five years older than me. They stroked at my hair, and told me how pretty I was. Mama was in the field, and daddy and W. D. were fixing the water pump. There was nobody around to tell me not to go up to the house with the girls, that I shouldn’t have said yes. So, I went up to their room, and let them dress me up, as if I was their doll. I still remember looking into the mirror, twirling around in that stupid dress, my old, second-hand one thrown on the floor. Mr Wheeler must have heard my laughter, for he came bounding in, furious. He . . . hit me, across the face. He dragged me out of the house, sobbing, his daughters not saying a word, smug as can be. He threw me down the steps, onto the grass. All the slaves were watching, including my family. Deciding he wasn’t done humiliating me, Mr Wheeler came after me, and tore the dress off of me. He told me that 'no negro of his was worth the collar around his dog’s neck, let alone his daughter’s dresses'. There was so much fury in his eyes. He hit me again, and left. Mama rushed over and lifted me into her arms, covering me as best she could. Daddy, now, he went after Mr Wheeler. Shouted up at him. Mr Wheeler ain’t ever had a slave talk back to him before. Daddy told him that I was a little girl, and that I didn’t know any better. I couldn’t see my mama’s face, but I knew she was afraid of what would happen. However, Mr Wheeler just disappeared inside his house."

Anne took a deep breath, a tear rolling down her cheek. She brushed it away before Phillip could reach over and dry her eyes for her. “The next morning, mama woke us up, me and W. D., before the sun had even risen. She dressed us, and washed us, even fed us, and took us up to the fence at the edge of the plantation. Handed us over to some escapees from another plantation, in Mississippi. Told them they were to take us as far away from New Orleans as possible. Her and W. D. made sure I never saw daddy’s body, swinging in the trees. I found out years later that he’d been beaten till bloody, and then hung up for all us slaves to see, as a warning. He was killed, and I know it was Mr Wheeler who did it."

There was no comprehending Anne’s words. Every detail of her story was so unjust and unfair that Phillip couldn’t contain his aversion. “You should have told somebody, the authorities, Anne, he couldn’t - "

“Phillip,” P. T. said, in a gentle voice, still holding his wife’s hand. Charity had tears in her eyes too. “Slaves don’t the same rights as us. They aren’t protected by the same laws."

“We were the Wheeler’s property, to do with as he liked,” Anne sighed. “Which is why could imagine the kind of uproar we brought on ourselves by escaping. Mr Wheeler had everybody out looking for us for weeks, but we’d vanished. The other slaves that had escaped were afraid they’d be sent to their master if they were caught with us, so fair enough they sold us to a travelling circus. Within a year, we were free, performing four shows a week."

Nobody knew what to say. There was nothing left to be said. An apology would have felt empty, and certainly long overdue. They knew that Anne wasn’t sharing her story so that she could be pitied, or treated differently. Phillip could see that Anne felt as though a weight had been lifted off of her shoulders, the sudden burden of holding all that frustration in, lifted. Not to say that the hurt, and anger, left by her past wasn’t still there, that she still wasn’t whole, only that the pressure of keeping it all bottled up had released some hostility that had been lingering, for decades.

Anne flushed, and rubbed at her eyes, which were threatening to spill again. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to just throw that all on you,” she began, before they all stopped her.

“You have nothing to apologise for, Anne,” Charity told her, in a motherly sort of tone. “I just can’t believe that you endured all of that, only to turn into this remarkable young woman."

“Here, here,” P. T. agreed, raising his glass towards Anne.

* * *

Anne grew quieter, after she had recounted her tale, choosing instead to listen to the others talking. She didn’t mind, for she liked listening. Charity had such a lovely voice, and P. T. told the funniest stories. Phillip, now he was a natural-born storyteller. No detail went amiss, no element felt out of place. He had them all on the edge of their seats at the right moment, gasping, laughing, even crying a little, all within a space of an evening.

Whilst she listened, Anne watched. She watched Phillip top glass, after glass, after glass with wine, and not appear in the slightest bit affected by the amount of liquor he was consuming. She herself had only had a mere few sips, and already her eyelids felt heavy. It was not her place to comment on his drinking habits, but she had noticed his dependence on alcohol many times before. Only now did she realise she was witnessing a man who did not even notice his own actions, how it was like clockwork that he would reach over and fill his empty glass with more wine.

After polishing up dessert, which consisted of apple pie and custard, both with a subtle hint of cinnamon, Anne was ready to curl up and go to bed. Fortunately, Charity saw her drooping eyes, and instructed P. T. to call the carriage back round to the front of the house. They got up from the table, and Phillip assisted Anne with her shawl. His hands lingered a little longer than they should have, on her shoulders. The pair said their farewells to the Barnum’s, and made their way outside, towards the waiting carriage.

Anne was helped in once again by Phillip, who was extraordinarily sturdy despite the gallons of wine he had consumed. The ride home was long, and the motions of the carriage sent Anne to sleep, where she found herself dreaming about walking through cotton fields, into her mama’s arms. She woke up with a jolt not long after, outside the circus, and realised she had fell asleep on Phillip. Embarrassed, she lifted her head from his shoulder, and stepped down out of the carriage, gripping onto his hand.

“I hope you had a pleasant evening, Anne,” Phillip said, with a slight smile. “I know I enjoyed your company. Would you like - ?"

Before Phillip could finish, they heard footsteps behind them, and turned to see an elderly couple, walking in their finery. They looked at Anne with petrified expressions on their faces, horrified to see her with a white man, and dressed so nicely. “You should be ashamed of yourselves,” the woman hissed as she passed by.

Unable to look Phillip in the eyes, Anne gulped, staring down at her hands. “Thank you for the lift, Mr Carlyle,” she replied, in a stiff voice. “Goodnight."

And with that she disappeared into the doorway, leaving Phillip behind to gape after her, deflated.


	10. "Would you like to come up on deck with me?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The circus boards the ocean liner to England, and emboldened by the new scenery, Phillip and Anne spark up a friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for waiting, this chapter has taken me forever! I hope it's worth it, and I appreciate all the support.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

The day had come for them to board the boat to England. Some were more excited than others. Take P. T. for example - Phillip couldn’t remember the last time he had seen that man so happy. Of course his spirits were a little dampened by the fact that his family couldn’t come along, due to Helen and Caroline’s schooling, but he was still enthusiastic and elated about their journey, leading the march down to the docks.

Others were less spirited. Namely, the coloured acts; Nnemoma Wilson, Mswati, Patsey Belmont, Queenie Johnson, W. D. and Anne Wheeler. They hung back, walking together, with sombre expressions. Mswati had his arm around Nnemoma, Patsey and Queenie were holding hands, and Anne had her arm looped through W. D.’s. They were protecting each other, keeping one another safe.

Phillip was walking alongside Lettie, trying to ignore the stares and glares herself. She saw Phillip glancing to the back of their group, following his eye-line to Anne. She could see the concern etched into his face. Reaching out to pat his arm, she understood the frustration he was harbouring.

“They’re scared,” she sighed. “They’re scared of what’ll happen when they step on that boat. Nnemoma and Mswati were smuggled into America from Africa on a slave ship, even after the transatlantic slave trade was made illegal. So were Anne and W. D.’s parents. They’ll have grown up hearing about the horrors aboard those boats, so you’ll forgive them for not being as overjoyed as old Barnum over there."

Yet again, Phillip could have kicked himself for being so clueless. Looking back at them, he noticed just how anxious they all were. Anne looked just like she did that night at Barnum’s, all nerves and worry. He wanted nothing more than to rush over to her side and tell her that everything was going to be just fine.

Instead, he continued walking. He walked all the way to the boat, a heavy feeling in his chest. His eyes kept flitting back to Anne, and the others, making sure that they were still there. She didn’t see him, as she was looking down, trying to ignore the stares from the workmen. The men working in the docks had put down their tools to watch as the circus passed.

As the troupe began to board, the man in charge of checking the tickets regarded them all with the same disgust most people did when they saw them. Phillip hung back, ensuring that everybody got on the boat. When it came to the coloured acts, the ticket collector simply shook his head.

“They can’t come onboard,” he told Phillip, as if they weren’t there. The man refused to look any of the acts in the eye.

Phillip furrowed his brow, and cocked his head. His temper was bubbling up to the surface, threatening to spill. “What do you mean? They have tickets, look - I bought them myself."

The ticket collector didn’t even bother to look at the boarding passes in Phillip’s hands. “Sorry sir, their kind are not allowed."

Despite the formalities, the man’s voice was laced with malice. Phillip turned to look at the acts, who were all huddled at the foot of the steps. His eyes caught Anne’s, and he felt his anger soften. She didn’t appear as surprised as he was by the man’s refusal to let them board. Her expression was despondent, and it spurred Phillip on. He couldn’t let her down, not when he’d promised that they would all get to go to meet the Queen.

“What law prohibits them from stepping onboard this boat?” Phillip questioned, knowing full well that no such law existed.

The man struggled to answer. “Well, it’s not . . . I mean, I can’t think . . . "

Phillip gestured for the group to begin boarding, ignoring the protests from the ticket collector. “It’s your kind that disgusts me,” Phillip spat, turning to climb up the stairs. Looking in front of him, he noticed that Anne had not yet boarded. Swivelling around, he spotted her, still on the ground. She seemed frozen, in fear. W. D. was stood by her, talking to her in a calm voice. He was trying to get her to move, but she was deaf to his pleas. Phillip descended the steps, eager to help in anyway he could.

“She’s afraid of the water,” W. D. sighed, answering Phillip’s question before he had the chance to ask. “I can’t get her to go up the stairs."

Anne was trembling again, and Phillip instinctively reached out and took her hand. She gasped, and he couldn’t ignore the shiver that went down his spine. Her hand was rough, and calloused, due to her work as a trapeze artist, but it was warm, and gentle to the touch. "Keep your eyes on me, and we’ll go up the steps together, alright?” Anne seemed reluctant. She kept glancing down at the water, crashing on the side of the boat. “Anne, I’ve got you. You’ll be safe."

Anne nodded. Her peachy lips parted, chestnut brown eyes never moving from Phillip’s. They climbed the stairs together, W. D. never far behind. When they reached the top, Anne took her hand from Phillip, breathing heavily. He couldn’t tell if that was because of the descent, or the contact between them.

“Thank you, Mr Carlyle,” she finally said, as her brother coughed behind her. “For helping us - and me - get on board."

The Wheeler siblings began to walk away when Phillip ran after them. He tapped Anne on the shoulder. “Would you like to come up on deck with me?” he asked her, before she could protest.

“I would like that very much,” she replied, with a smile, taking him aback. Ignoring her brother’s disapproval, she handed him her suitcase, which was a great deal smaller than Phillip’s, which had already been sent up to his room, on the First Class floor, alongside P. T., who had specifically asked for the luxurious cabins. Though he could buy them tickets, Phillip was ashamed to say that while he had a spacious room and even a view, the acts were demoted to Third Class cabins, where they were sharing with each other.

W. D. left them, muttering to himself, whilst Phillip led Anne up to the top deck, where they could watch the city pass by as the boat pulled out of the harbour.  
They found a bench to sit on, far enough away from the side of the boat, but close enough that they could see the skyscrapers and towers. As Anne watched with wide eyes as they ploughed past New York, Phillip found himself captivated by _her_. The breeze blew through her cocoa coloured hair, which she had left down, sending the curls flying about her pretty face. Her hands were gripped on to her dress, a lovely blue one, that matched the colour of the sea below them.

“That’s where your daddy works, isn’t it?” she asked him, pointing to a tall, magnificent-looking building, with gleaming glass windows. It was the tallest building in sight.

Phillip turned to regard Anne with a bemused expression. “It is,” he answered. “How do you know that?"

“There’s a great deal of things I know,” she retorted, with a wide grin, not tearing her eyes away from the view. “Plenty I’ve heard about you. Most eligible bachelor in New York, ain’t you?"

He chuckled. “Not any more. What kind of respectable socialite would want to marry a circus man?” Anne didn’t find his statement as amusing. She looked down at her hands, with a straight face. Phillip realised his mistake, and cursed under his breath. “The types of ‘respectable socialites’ I know are all stuck-up women with sour faces; certainly not any kind of girl I’d be interested in. That’s who my mother wishes I’d marry, not me."

Anne crinkled her nose up, and turned to look at Phillip. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Anne gave him a small smile that extended to her eyes, which twinkled. “Your mother sounds _wonderful_ ,” she smirked.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Phillip sighed, running a hand through his hair. “My mother cares more about our reputation than anything else. Even the wellbeing of her only son."

As New York disappeared into the horizon, Phillip stood up and beamed at Anne. “Would you like your first reading lesson?” he asked.

* * *

Phillip led Anne down to his cabin on the First Class floor, watching her eyes light up. Seeing as he had grown up amongst all the splendour and glittering lights, the luxury of everything didn’t faze Phillip - in fact, he had expected nothing less. However, he couldn’t imagine the kinds of conditions Anne was used to, and seeing her reaction to the First Class floor was just another reminder of how different they were.

Her dress, pretty as it made her look, paled in comparison to the quality of gowns many of the aristocratic women were adorning. She was attracting all kinds of stares and sneers from the women onboard, who were clearly not accustomed to seeing a black women walking amongst them in First Class. Fortunately she was so caught up in all the glamour, that she was oblivious to the looks she was receiving. Phillip, however, saw everything. It infuriated him. He wanted nothing more than to shout at them all, prove to them all that Anne was worth a hundred of them.

When Phillip found his room, he slotted the key in, and opened the door, allowing Anne in first. She looked around, her arms crossed, unsure of what to do with herself. He smiled at her, and gestured for her to take a seat at the desk in the corner. He scrambled in a drawer for some scraps of paper, and a pencil. Triumphantly, he found some, and placed them in front of Anne.

“You ever taught anybody to read before?” she asked, skeptically.

“No,” Phillip admitted, taking a seat next to her. He then grinned. “But, I am a writer - how difficult could it be?"

* * *

After, their first lesson, Phillip was confident that Anne would be reading novels in no time. She was a fast learner, and a hard worker. He admired her determination, he really did. She was able to recite the alphabet, admittedly with a little prompting, but could do it all the same. She was also able to read and write the letters up to the letter M.

Anne was so pleased with herself, Phillip could see the joy etched into her beautiful features. She put the pencil down, and looked up at him. “How old were you when you learnt to read?” she inquired, perching her chin on her hand.

“Five years old, if I remember correctly,” he answered, casting his mind back. “I had a nanny, named Betty. I adored her, more than my own parents. She would read bedtime stories about dragons, and knights, and princesses up in towers to me every single night. One day, I decided I wanted to surprise her and read her a story. I practised for weeks, and weeks, until eventually I was able to read a whole book."

Anne smiled at him, warm and genuine. “So was it Betty who inspired your ambition to become a writer?"

Phillip nodded. “We managed to read through every single one of my fairytales in a matter of months, so I began writing stories of my own for us to read. My father, however, didn’t think that any son of his should waste time writing about kings and queens. He found my stories stashed under my pillow, and tore them up in front of me. Betty was fired the next day, and at six years old I was sent away to boarding school."

“Oh Phillip, that’s awful,” Anne muttered, full of sympathy. He was amazed that, after everything she revealed to him at the Barnum’s a month ago, she still felt empathy for the poor, little rich boy. “Your father fired Betty cause she encouraged your writing?"

“Mother fired Betty because she comforted me after father ripped up my stories. I sobbed in her arms, as she held me at the foot of my bed. You see, Betty was . . . well, she was coloured. Mother didn’t approve of a woman like Betty behaving the way she did towards a boy like me. I didn’t understand at the time, but soon I came to see my mother for who she is. I’m embarrassed by her, I truly am. The things she says and does, all without a second thought to anybody else, it makes me loathe her. Loathe my name because of her. The mere fact that I’m associated with any of them makes me feel nauseous."

Anne reached out and placed a hand on his arm. The gesture was sweet, and it was tender. Despite her steely and stony exterior, Anne Wheeler was quite compassionate, with a heart of gold. Phillip felt at a loss for words.

“Betty’s kindness must have rubbed off on you,” Anne began, her words making Phillip’s heart swell. “What you did for us earlier was honourable. Helping me climb those stairs too, that was very nice of you. I don’t think I could’ve made it onboard otherwise."

Phillip shrugged, though he felt quite moved by Anne’s statement. “Any of you would have done the same for me,” I replied, courteously. “Had the occasion arisen."

He stood up, and made his way over to the drink’s cabinet. He turned to ask Anne if she’d join him in a whiskey, but she shook her head, and proceeded to tell him that she doesn’t drink. “I ain’t ever had a drop in my life,” she said, watching him pour the amber liquid into a glass. “Not sure W. D. would take too kindly to his little sister taking up the bottle."

“W. D. told me that you were afraid of the water, earlier,” Phillip said, sitting back down at the table, drink in hand. “Is there any reason - if you don’t mind my asking, of course."

Anne shook her head. “No, I don’t mind,” she told him, though her smile had dropped. “I can’t swim. Never been able to. It didn’t put me off going near the water though, when I was little. There was a lake, right by the plantation, where we were allowed to bathe and wash our things in. Next to the lake, there was this big old willow tree, with branches that hung over the water. I was six, and W. D. was twelve. He dared me to see how long I could hang upside down on one of the furthest branches. We were good climbers, even back then, and even better with heights. I’d climbed that tree hundreds of times, and yet this one day, I lost my footing and slipped. I fell head first into the water, and felt myself sinking to the bottom. I remember hearing my mama screaming on the bank. My daddy jumped in and pulled me out. I was choking up water for days. Never went near the lake again, except when mama had to drag me down to wash me."

Perhaps it was the alcohol talking, or perhaps it was his newfound feelings of boldness when it came to Anne, but Phillip found himself leaning forward in his chair. “I promise, if you were to fall in again, I’d jump straight in after you.”


	11. "What things?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> W. D. feels it's his responsibility to put a few things into perspective, for both Anne and Phillip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is extremely late, I've been away for a few days. I hope to update again tomorrow however, so I hope you don't mind too much.  
> Thank you for all the lovely comments! I absolutely love reading every single one of them!  
> Please enjoy!

* * *

Anne left Phillip’s cabin with a giddy feeling in her chest. She felt the way she would before performing in front of a crowd; nervous, but a good kind of nervous. The type that filled her with anticipation and elation. She couldn’t explain it, explain why Phillip Carlyle made her feel how she did. Nobody else had ever had this kind of hold over her, and it excited her, in an odd sort of way. But mostly, it scared her.

As she made her way down to the bottom of the boat, to Third Class, the smile did not shift from her face. Pushing the door open to the cabin, she spotted W. D. waiting for her, sprawled out across the bottom bunk. He jumped up immediately at the sight of his sister, arms crossed. Anne knew that he had an already prepared comment on the tip of his tongue, ripe to scold her.

“What is it?” she sighed.

“You’ve been gone a long time, is all,” her brother replied, in a stern voice. “What have you been doing with him?"

Anne shrugged. “Just talking,” she answered, and saw her brother’s expression soften, but not by much. She loved the bones of him, but sometimes his overprotective nature was suffocating. “He gave me my first reading lesson too."

“What did you talk about?” W. D. asked her, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, he mostly talked, I listened,” she explained. She watched her brother closely, as she took a seat on the bed. “I told him about the plantation, though. About why I’m afraid of the water."

W. D. groaned, and sat next to his sister. “He has no business knowing any of that, Annie,” he muttered, shaking his head. “He can’t possibly understand."

“But I think he does, W. D.,” Anne told him, sounding exasperated. “He’s trying to understand. Shouldn’t that mean something? Ain’t you always saying that the white folk ain’t interested in us? Well, Phillip is. I’ve told him more about myself than anybody else, besides you of course. I feel . . . comfortable around him."

Sighing, he put an arm around his sister. He could see her knitted brow. “I’m not so sure about Phillip,” W. D. began, wary of his tone. Anne could tell that he was trying not to upset her, choosing his words carefully. “There’s things that I’ve heard about him, things that ain’t so nice."

Anne pulled away from him, frowning. She tucked her hair behind her ear, and held her breath nervously. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what her brother had to say. “What things?” she asked, apprehensively.

“He’s got a bit of a reputation, when it comes to women. There are rumours about him and just about every single one of the actresses he employs. And you can’t deny he has a drinking problem - we’ve all seen him with that flask. And there are the fights he gets into on the daily. Just last month he was fighting outside Broadway with a theatre critic."

It took Anne a few minutes to let W. D.’s words sink in. _Women? Drinking? Fighting?_ This was not the kind, warm-hearted Phillip Carlyle she knew. Fine, she had noticed his drinking habits, but she hadn’t put a label to it yet. She didn’t want to. To associate him with the sleazy, drunken thugs that she’d often pass on the streets, cautiously and terrified, was a sickening thought. Phillip was the man who listened to her, who helped her climb the boat’s stairs, who escorted her to dinners. He wasn’t this bully W. D. was describing. She shook her head, refusing to believe it.

“He’s different,” she assured her brother. “You’re wrong. Whatever you’ve heard, it’s not true. It can’t be."

“Anne, you don’t have to defend him. You don’t know him."

She jumped up off of the bed, fuming. “I know him better than you!"

“But he doesn’t know you, does he? Not properly? You tell him about the plantation, and the lake, but you won’t tell him about that scar on your back, or about the Duchannes brothers - "

Anne lashed out and slapped her brother, much to both of their surprise. She gasped immediately, retracting her hand, which was trembling. W. D. touched his face, tentatively, barely a mark on him. He gave Anne a small smile, and pulled her towards his chest, holding her close. “I’m sorry, that was mean. I only meant that it’s all well and good this . . . friendship, but I’m only worried about you. Worried you’re gonna get hurt, that’s all. You’re my baby sister, and I’m looking out for you."

W. D. kissed Anne on the top of her head, and she wrapped her arms around him tighter.

* * *

The sea breeze was chilly, particularly at night. Phillip found it somewhat bracing, in an exhilarating sort of way. It reminded him he was alive. Too many times in New York would he feel trapped, and suffocated, and find that the only way to rid himself of the gloominess was a brisk walk through the streets outside - preferably in the early morning, before the sun has graced the sky.

Aboard the ocean liner headed for London, however, he felt completely free. A cigarette danced between his lips as he leant over the railing, watching as the water slipped away in trickles. The urgency for fresh air wasn’t because he needed to be shocked back into consciousness, it was because he had came to a realisation.

Really, he had known all along that he loved Anne Wheeler. He’d loved her the second their eyes met, and she stole the breath from his lungs. He hadn’t known until that evening that he was _in love with_ Anne Wheeler. Irrevocably so. Everything about her was so endearing, and impressive. She was certainly the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, but she was so much more than her beauty. She had a way of speaking, in that charming Southern accent, that made her voice almost melodic, and kept him hanging on every single word. Her smile; it was brighter than the sun itself. Her passion for her brother, and the circus, and her trapeze was inspiring, and admirable. She was as gentle as she was strong, if that made any sense.

As Phillip inhaled puff after puff of tobacco, he became more and more overwhelmed in all things Anne. So much so, he hadn’t noticed two men take the seat on the beside him until they had begun talking. Stamping out his nearly finished cigarette, Phillip intended to head inside when he caught a snippet of their conversation that grounded him to the deck.

“ . . . There’s a whole floor full of them, at the bottom of the ship,” one of them remarked, sneering. “Every colour you could imagine."

“I thought I saw a mulatto walking around earlier,” replied the other one, his use of the derogatory slur causing Phillip to tense every bone in his body. “She was pretty - for a black girl I mean. I wouldn’t dare touch the negro though, don’t know where she’s been!"

His friend chuckled. “You’ve got to be careful with her kind. She may be lighter than the others, but she’ll still be a savage, deep down. Negroes always are."

That was the last straw. Phillip couldn’t bear to listen to another word. He swivelled around to face the two men, and lunged. He punched one square in the jaw, and got another kick in, when the other one pulled him off. He held Phillip back, whilst the man with the broken nose throws a few good punches in Phillip’s direction, before P. T. and Constantine stepped in to intervene. They broke up the brawl, and dragged Phillip below deck, his lip split and eye already puffy.

“You stupid fool!” P. T. cried, as he placed Phillip down on the chair in his room. Constantine, who used to box frequently, was already running a cloth under the tap, preparing to dab away the blood. “What the hell were you thinking?"

* * *

Just as W. D. sat watching his sister sleep soundly, perched on the end of the bed, Charles came storming in. W. D. held a finger to his lips before Charles could wake Anne up with whatever news he had to say, and ushered out of the room. Ensuring that Anne was still peacefully slumbering, W. D. closed the door behind him, and frowned at Charles.

“What is it?” he whispered, arms crossed.

The dwarf was out of breath, and his cheeks flushed. He looked up at the acrobat, gasping for air. “There was . . . a fight . . . Phillip . . . " That was all he could muster, before W. D.’s eyes widened, and he sped off down the corridor, and up the stairs to First Class, leaving behind a dumbfounded Charles.

“Make sure Anne doesn’t leave that room!” W. D. called to Charles, as he disappeared round the corner.

He found Phillip hunched up in a chair, eye swollen and lip cut. He was nursing a glass of whiskey, scowling. P. T. was stood beside him, head in his hands, and shoulders tense. Lettie spotted W. D. first, and gasped, trying to guide him out of the door, to no prevail.

“What’s gone on here?” W. D. asked, curious. P. T. looked up at him, and he too shook his head, motioning towards the door.

“Nothing, W. D., just a stupid brawl,” P. T. began, not allowing Phillip to speak.

“Who with?” W. D. tried again, hoping to receive some actual answers. He stared at Phillip, and stood his ground.

Phillip appeared to be debating with himself whether to tell W. D. or not. He sat up, with a groan, and took a sip of his whiskey. Caving in, he turned to W. D., ignoring Lettie and P. T.’s protests. “Just a couple of men on the top deck,” he said in a feeble voice. “They were - "

“Hush, child,” Lettie hissed.

“He should know! They were saying some . . . some awful things about Anne,” Phillip sighed, remembering the names they had used and feeling his jaw clench. “Things not worth repeating."

Phillip wasn’t sure what he was expecting in terms of a reaction from W. D., perhaps a thank you for defending his little sister? Certainly not anger. Certainly not disdain, or fury, or frustration.

“You have no right to step in like that!” he cried, pointing a finger at Phillip, who furrowed his brows in confusion.

He stepped up, despite the aching in his joints, and looked at W. D. incredulously. “I thought you’d be grateful - "

“Grateful? For what? Punching a few racists?” W. D. scoffed. “People say nasty things to Anne all the time, one fight isn’t gonna put a stop to that.And what if she had been there? She would have been caught up in it all, perhaps even hurt!"

“I would never have -"

W. D., however, was not stopping He didn’t let Phillip finish, and instead raised his voice louder. “Would you have gone out of your way like you did if those men were talking about me like that? Or Nnemoma, or Patsey? Have you ever defended a coloured person before today, when white folk make the sorts of comments they did tonight?” W. D. knew fully well that Phillip had never done such a thing before, and Phillip felt ashamed. He hung his head, unable to look him in the yes. “I thought so."

Phillip took another sip of his whiskey, finding comfort in the burning liquid sliding down in his throat. W. D. sighed, and continued. “I see how you look at my sister. Anne’s pretty, and she’s intelligent. She’s different to the types of girls you’re used to, I get it. But whatever you think you feel for her now . . . it ain’t gonna last. She’s black, and you’re white. Society ain’t gonna accept it, and your people certainly ain’t gonna either."

The acrobat’s words were like a slap to the face. They were much sharper and harder than any of the punches Phillip had previously received. He’d had his doubts before, small nigglings, but never had he - or anyone else - voiced them out loud. Now that they were out in the open, Phillip found himself picturing his mother’s face if he ever brought Anne home to meet her. Phillip feared that the shock would kill her.

Lettie suddenly coughed, and both W. D. and Phillip turned in her direction. Phillip felt nauseous. Anne was stood beside Lettie, arms crossed, and a look as wild as her hair in her eyes. She looked between her brother and Phillip, and Phillip was convinced that he saw a flash of concern across her features as her eyes roamed over his injuries. However, it was so brief that he feared he simply imagined it. She looked so disappointed in him. P. T. asked her how long she had been stood there when nobody else said a word.

“Long enough,” was all she said. She then left the room without uttering another thing, and Phillip was tempted to run after her. Instead, he let W. D. go, knowing that she’d probably find more comfort with her brother, than him.

* * *

Anne’s heart was thumping so hard, and so erratically, that she half-expected it to jump out of her chest. Everything about stepping foot inside that room had felt strange. Hearing her brother’s brutally honest comments about her, and Phillip, and Phillip’s possible feelings towards her. The last part had made her breath stop, and stick in her throat. Phillip hadn’t denied W. D.’s words, about him feeling a certain type of way about her, and this excited Anne. And yet, the specifics of what her brother was saying was about the impossibility of the pair ever being together, and Phillip hadn’t denied that either.

The injuries had been hard to stomach. They weren’t serious, but there were sore. His left eye was swollen nearly shut, and his lip was bleeding profusely. Phillip was usually so handsome, so perfect, that to see him bruised and bloody was jarring. Yet, whilst her initial reaction was to worry, she couldn’t help but be reminded of W. D.’s words to her, about the rumours he had heard about Phillip and his women, drinking, and fighting. She had refused to believe it, and less than an hour later Phillip is being patched up after a brawl over _her_.

She had to leave the First Class floor. The whispers and the glares that trailed in her wake were becoming all too overwhelming. She was careful to be on the look out for the men Phillip had gotten into the fight with. She knew how to spot them - they’d have bruises and cuts too. Anne had seen the grazes on Phillip’s knuckles, so she knew that he had to have damaged them just as badly, if not worse.

Footsteps echoed behind her, though Anne didn’t stop until she was back inside their cabin. Her brother reached out to place a hand on her shoulder, but she flinched away, instinctively.

“I am old enough to fight my own battles!” she exclaimed, her blood boiling. “That goes for you, and for Phillip!"

That was all she had strength to say. She felt exhausted, and drained. She still wasn’t at ease with being on the water, the constant rocking motions sending her nerves over the edge. She climbed into the top bunk, not even bothering to ask W. D. what his preference was, and pulled the thin sheets over her body. She heard W. D. sigh, and felt the bed creak as he got into the bottom bunk. A matter of seconds later, and she was fast asleep.

This time she dreamt she was stood on the railings of the boat, empty of all people, as it sunk into the depths of the ocean. Wind lapped through her hair, and her dress, and she couldn’t hear anything except the pounding of her heart. Frozen with fear, she glanced down, and saw Phillip. His arms were outstretched, and he was smiling. In that moment, Anne wasn’t afraid anymore. His words reverberated around her brain; _I promise, if you were to fall in again, I’d jump straight in after you_.

So she jumped, knowing that he would be right by her side.


	12. "Why are you so interested in me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their arrival to Buckingham Palace doesn't go quite as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you all I'd post today! Hopefully I can keep this momentum going, and post again tomorrow! I'm really happy with this chapter, and I understand that the storyline progress feels like it's going to slow for some people, but I'm just trying to flesh everything out properly - characters, plot, motivations etc.  
> Anyway, I hope you all had a good Valentine's Day/Single's Awareness Day!  
> Enjoy!

* * *

For the rest of the journey, Anne kept herself to herself. She avoided Phillip, and her brother, like the plague, choosing instead to stay with Lettie and the other acts, or sitting up in the crow’s nest.

Phillip remembered the first time he had spotted Anne climbing the rigging, his heart dropping into his stomach. P. T. had panicked, worrying that she’d fall overboard, or worse - to her death on the decking. However, W. D. had assured them that she wouldn’t fall. Anne hated being below deck, and felt more at ease atop the crow’s nest, where she was as far away from the water as possible. Phillip would often watch her, from down below, gazing up at her as though she were a star millions of galaxies away.

Quite a few times had Phillip descended to the Third Class floor to find Anne. He’d tried to talk to her, explain why he had fought those men, but she’d only shut the cabin door on him. Each time felt like a new blow to the chest. Phillip thought that he and Anne were getting on well; she had shared with him things she’d not told anybody else, hadn’t she? That must mean she had to trust him.

Lettie had sat him down the morning before they reached London to help him understand why Anne was behaving so distant to him all of a sudden. She’d said that Anne, despite her bravery and confidence she displayed most of the time, was scared what people would think if they saw Phillip, a wealthy, white aristocrat, with her, a poor, coloured circus act. She was terrified about what it would mean for Phillip’s reputation, and how people would react if they knew they were friends. Would they be violent? Would they give them grief?

As the boat neared the English coast, Phillip found himself more distracted by his own thoughts than the stunning view. Anne was worried about _him_ being ruined, and _him_ being hurt, that she was shutting him out, despite the damage that it could do to _herself_. In spite everything W. D. had said, and Lettie, Phillip realised that her selfless way of protecting them both was just another thing that made him love her more.

The sun was setting as they arrived in London Harbour. P. T. had gathered all the acts together, despite the odd stares from other passengers, and instructed them all to stay together. Anne stood beside Patsey and Queenie, the three girls all holding each other close. Lettie reminded them that slavery was abolished in Britain in 1772, which was ninety years prior. Every black person they were to see were free, just as they were. They weren’t to be nervous, or afraid.

However, that didn’t stop them from being concerned. Just because slavery was outlawed, that didn’t mean racism was.

Phillip, though allowing Anne her space, watched her closely. Whether it was from being a wallflower when he was younger, or being a writer, Phillip thought himself a very good judge of character. He liked to think that he knew her very well, from the little that she had let him see, and was able to tell just what she was thinking. Her eyes kept flitting towards the men working on the docks, who had all put down their tools to watch the circus pass in astonishment. Her grip on Patsey’s hand was tight, almost as if she was anchoring herself. Anne's hair, which was one of her telltale signs that she was not of European descent, was pinned up, though as always despite her best efforts, a few curls could not be contained.

The guards at Buckingham Palace could scarcely believe their eyes when six carriages arrived outside the gates, containing the most exotic people inside. Phillip showed them the letter, with the official seal and authorised signature, and they were waved in, without a moments delay. Several footmen met them at the door, where they were each shown to their rooms. They were sharing, of course. Well, the acts were. Yet again Phillip and P. T. were given preferential treatment. Phillip tried to oppose to his large, spacious room, telling the footman that he wouldn’t mind at all sharing, but the arrangements had already been made. Turning to apologise to the acts, Phillip felt embarrassed.

He wasn’t sure why he was surprised at their reaction, he knew them all well enough by now. However, the graciousness in which they dismissed his apology, with smiles and laughter, moved Phillip. They hadn’t expected anything less than him having a room to himself and them sharing with each other, and this made him feel guilty. Guilty, and proud to be their friend.

Anne wouldn’t share with W. D. - she still hadn’t completely forgiven him. Instead she shared a room with Patsey, Phillip watched as she walked down the hall, and felt his hopes soar as she turned around to look at him before she turned the corner.

The rooms at Buckingham were nothing short of exquisite. Phillip remembered his parent’s house, and thinking as a child that it was the height of luxury. In comparison to the Queen’s residence, however, the Carlyle house had all the charm of a shed. A spacious one, but a shed all the same. Phillip couldn’t help but wonder how Anne must be feeling. After seeing her reaction to the Barnum’s estate, he could only imagine how daunting a palace must be for her.

He dressed for dinner in finery he hadn’t worn since that night P. T. found him drinking himself into a stupor on Broadway. P. T. himself came and knocked on Phillip’s door, to tell him that dinner was being served. The pair walked down to the lounge, where they found that they were among the last to arrive, and that the others were just waiting on Lettie, Hai, Deng, Chang, Eng, Mswati, Patsey, Nnemoma, Queenie, W. D. and Anne.

Milling around the others, Phillip kept glancing towards the doorway, waiting for Anne to walk in. His grip on his champagne flute was tight, and he feared that the anticipation was going to give him a heart attack. Looking around at everybody else, they were all wearing their nicest clothes, and the girls’ hair was all pinned up. Phillip knew Anne didn’t own many clothes - he had noticed that she wore the same things in rotation, all accompanied by her beloved shawl - and hoped to see her in the red skirt she had worn to the Barnum’s a week ago, though she looked just as beautiful in everything else.

When a figure appeared in the doorway that turned out to not be Anne, Phillip was disappointed. It was a butler, telling them dinner was being served in the main dining hall. Whilst they were told that the Queen will not be attending, as she had urgent state matters to attend to, Phillip furrowed his brow and double-checked the inhabitants of the room. There was no sign of the other eleven.

“Excuse me, we’re not all here yet,” Phillip informed the butler. “There are a few others we’re still waiting on."

The butler was an uptight looking man, with an upturned nose and stiff lip. “Are you referring to the . . . coloured acts?"

Phillip caught P. T.’s eye, and frowned. “I am, yes,” he answered, cautiously. He had a horrid feeling in his stomach.

“You need not wait for them, sir,” the butler informed him. “The coloured acts are to eat in a separate room, at the request of Her Majesty. As not to unsettle the other guests."

Phillip was outraged. He had promised them that they would not be treated differently, that the Queen would not oppose to them being there. He had _promised_ Anne that they would be equal. He hated to imagine her disappointment when they were told they were to eat elsewhere because the other guests were too uncomfortable to be in the presence of her. Finishing the champagne in one gulp, he handed the butler his empty glass and made his way into the dining hall with anger pulsing through his veins.

* * *

All throughout the meal, Phillip could barely utter one word. Glancing around at the other guests, all in fine dresses and suits, skin like porcelain, he despised them all. They got to enjoy the luxuries the Queen had to offer, whilst they had forced Anne and the others into a separate room because of their skin colour. They were even judging the acts sat before them, despite sharing a skin tone, barely able to look any of them in the eyes.

P. T. did all the talking, for which Phillip was grateful. It meant he was free to drink himself silly, pushing his food around his plate. He wondered if Anne was allowed to eat the same food they were, or if she had to eat bread and water with the servants, or even in the stables with the horses. The few mouthfuls he could muster were delicious, a fact that infuriated him further. He remembered the way Anne’s eyes lit up when she had tried the delicacies at the Barnum’s, and how pretty she had looked.

After dessert was all cleared away, the guests all stood up and headed for the drawing room. Phillip, who was starting to see double of objects, was fully intending to go straight to his room to drink and sulk and drink some more, when he heard a gasp. Curiosity getting the better of him, he followed the others into the drawing room.

Lady Ashcroft, a particularly fussy and austere woman, was fanning herself profusely, her husband comforting her. “I was told not to expect the negroes until tomorrow,” she whispered, though not that quiet.

Phillip would have put her in her place if he had not spotted Anne, stood by the mantle place, an uneasy expression on her face. She was clad in that delightful maroon skirt, and cream blouse. It may have looked a little out of place, among the ballgowns and fanciful jewellery, but Phillip still thought she was the most magnificent girl in the room. She caught his eye, and he saw her lips part slightly, as her breath hitched in her throat. She looked away quickly, and if Phillip had any less alcohol he perhaps would have kept his distance. However, one champagne too many, and he had no restraint.

He bound over to her, determined. “I’m sorry I _*hiccup!*_ didn’t know that they were going to _*hiccup!*_ split us all up,” he began, despite the interruptions. He saw Anne’s expression slip, and she exhaled. He could tell that she knew straight away he was inebriated, however that didn’t stop him. “I feel awful because _*hiccup!*_ I promised you that you were to be _*hiccup!*_ treated fairly here, and you weren’t. None of you _*hiccup!*_ were."

Anne glanced around, and then placed a hand on Phillip’s arm, and led him into the corridor. He could hear the other guests gossiping about what the pair of them were up to, but he ignored it. Anne did too. “Go to bed, Phillip,” she sighed. “You’re drunk."

Not sure why, Phillip denied it. “I’m not, I’m _*hiccup!*_ fine. I just wanted to see you.” It was clear he wasn’t.

Anne shook her head. She turned to leave, but couldn’t bring herself to turn her back on him. “Why are you so interested in me?” she asked him, her honesty refreshing. Most people would have just left.

“Because you’re breathtaking,” Phillip answered, equally as truthful. He didn’t have to think about his answer, it just rolled off his tongue. Anne froze, his words catching her by surprise. “I’m completely _*hiccup!*_ captivated by you."

He could see Anne’s brain whirring away, debating what to do next. Clearly she wasn’t expecting his reply, and was composing her own answer in her mind. She leaned in, close enough that Phillip could see very fleck of colour in her eyes. Everything else became blurred, and the chattering in the other room slipped away. Anne was two inches taller than he was, which surprised him. Yet another thing he adored about her. Their lips were so close; all it would take to kiss her would be to lean just a few centimetres forward. She wasn’t stepping away, he could easily close the space between them and just kiss her, there and then.

_*hiccup!*_

He ruined it. Anne took a step backwards, looking discouraged and exhausted. “You’re a fool, Phillip Carlyle,” she told him, before disappearing back into the drawing room. Crestfallen, Phillip couldn’t bring himself to follow her. Instead, he retired to his room, head pounding, wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.


	13. "Anti-miscegenation laws? What are they?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The troupe are presented to the Queen, and Phillip is left speechless more than once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll! Hopefully the next chapter will be up same time tomorrow.
> 
> The story of Sarah Forbes Bonetta is a true one, and I thought her inclusion in the story would very fitting with the themes of the film.
> 
> Also, if anybody watched Zendaya on Dancing with the Stars, you'll notice the dance I included in this chapter is the same routine she performed Week One. If you're not familiar with the dance, or just want to refresh you're memory, it's all on YouTube :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

* * *

The next morning, every single one of the acts - including P. T. and Phillip - awoke with butterflies in their stomaches. They were to meet the Queen, and after she had insisted they be separated at dinner the previous night, they weren’t feeling too comfortable.

As always, when Phillip dragged himself out of bed that morning, he regretted ever touching a drop of that champagne. His head felt as though there was a constant stampede of elephants running through his brain, and his eyelids were heavy and difficult to keep open. After splashing his face with cold water in the basin, he dressed himself once again in his finery, half-heartedly.

As if he couldn’t feel any rougher, all the memories of the night before came flooding back to him as he slipped on his shoes. How he had made a complete fool of himself in front of Anne, and how she had shot him down. He would have given up all hope of Anne ever loving him back if he wasn’t convinced that she would have kissed him if he hadn’t spoiled the moment. The closeness in which they had stood to each other had sent his heart racing. That wasn’t accidental; Anne knew what she was doing.

Reluctantly, Phillip pulled himself to his feet, and crossed the room to the doorway. P. T. was expecting him outside the Main Hall at ten. Walking down the staircase, Phillip noticed he was the last one to be ready. All the others were stood waiting, P. T. with an impatient expression across his face. He glared at Phillip, and shook his head. He too was wearing finery, whilst all the acts were clad in their respective costumes. Phillip frowned.

“I though we were all to wear suits and dresses?” he remarked, watching as the acts appeared to be uncomfortable dressed in so little material, in comparison to the sophisticated atmosphere.

“Me and you, yes. I thought it better that the acts appear more fantastical, more . . . exotic,” P. T. explained, grinning. He motioned for Phillip to walk on, without giving him a chance to reply. The footmen held open the doors for them, and they entered the Main Hall, with some trepidation.

Plastering on a false smile, Phillip led the troupe down the carpet. The stares from the aristocratic audience were intimidating to say the least, but Phillip kept his eyes forward, not allowing himself to be distracted or disheartened. The Queen was an elegant woman, with high cheekbones and kind eyes. She was prettier than her portrait made out, and she was looking upon the circus acts before her with mild shock and fascination.

It was Phillip's contacts that had gotten them there, so it was his job to introduce them all. The silence that followed was jarring, and he suddenly became very worried that they had only been brought there under a ruse, to be humiliated. Then the Queen laughed, and welcomed them, giving the circus a round of applause. Her guests joined in, and whether their smiles were genuine or not, Phillip appreciated it all the same.

“If you please, Your Highness, my acts have each prepared a performance for you,” P. T. explained, with a charming beam.

“I’m intrigued, Mr Barnum,” the Queen replied, her hands folded in her lap. Her accent was crisp and clean, as a royal’s should sound. “Please, my guests and I would love to see just what is your circus does."

Nodding hiss head, P. T. gestured to the first act with a sweep of his arm. It was Lettie, who was beyond nervous. Phillip watched as she turned to glance behind her, and Anne gave her a reassuring smile. This seemed to give her all the confidence she needed, as she began to sing a song so beautifully that no matter what the nobles had thought of her and her beard beforehand, they were reduced to tears by the time she had finished.

Lettie set the bar very high, however, their acts did not disappoint. Grace O’Malley, the Irish knife-thrower, and Deng Yan, the Chinese blade specialist, followed, and performed a death-defying series of feats that had the Queen on the edge of her seat. Fidel Mancuso, a Mexican juggler, and Marc Lamer, a French juggler, were next, and were joined mid-performance by the Albino twins, Maria and Weronika Novak, and Mswati. Despite their jaw-dropping act, Phillip couldn’t help but hear the gasps from the guests when Mswati, a former Ghanian slave, appeared alongside the others.

Anne and W. D. were next. They stepped up, and Phillip could sense their apprehension. The aristocrats weren’t hiding their distaste well, and all manner of obscenities were uttered throughout the Main Hall. The Queen, however, was sympathetic to the pair of them. She smiled down at them, taking them by surprise.

“May I introduce W. D. and Anne Wheeler, acrobat extraordinaires,” Phillip presented, an air of pride about him. He caught Anne’s eye, and saw a flash of appreciation.

“Acrobats? I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with the term,” the Queen said, with knitted eyebrows.

As Phillip cleared his throat, ready to explain just what it meant, Anne spoke up. “That’s alright, Your Highness, we’ll be performing something a little different for you, in your honour."

P. T. was clearly caught off guard, just as Phillip was, and looked over at his associate. He didn’t appear to be very happy with W. D. and Anne’s change of mind, and mouthed to Phillip if he knew what was happening, to which he merely shrugged. He was just as in the dark as P. T. was. The Queen, however, appeared delighted.

W. D. and Anne got into their positions, standing side by side, and began a contemporary dance routine, something that Phillip had never seen. W. D. twirled Anne around, and held her as she reached her arm out, balancing on one leg. She was graceful, a different type of graceful from how she was in the air. Her limbs were undeniably long, but she moved with a delicacy and elegance about her that it was breathtaking. W. D. demonstrated his great strength as he lifted her in the air, spinning the pair of them around. They then performed a dance that had everybody entranced. They were quick, they were agile, they were poised - but most of all, they were heart-stopping.

It was not lost on Phillip the comments some of the men were making behind him. He could see their expressions; lecherous and lustful. Their eyes were drawn to Anne’s bare flesh, making Phillip’s blood boil. He resisted the urge to put them in their place, and turned his focus back to Anne and W. D.’s dance.

Anne fell back into W. D.’s arms, who caught her with ease, and projected her forwards. She then leant across his back, only for him to lift her up again, and perform another spin. They crossed the room, harmoniously, and W. D. lifted Anne up onto a table, earning gasps from many of the guests. She stretched her arms up, very professionally, and then leapt back into her brother’s arms. It was magnificent. They then continued to dance, ending with a bow.

Phillip couldn’t contain himself. He applauded, and cheered, louder than anybody in the room. The Queen even stood up for them, clapping.

As Anne and W.D. stepped to the side to allow the next act to perform, Phillip saw P. T. pull them aside. Clearly, he wasn’t best pleased about decision to dance instead of display their acrobatic skills, as had been the plan. Phillip wanted to rush over and defend them, but instead he introduced Chang and Eng Bunker, the Siamese Twins.

* * *

After they had all finished performing their acts, footmen shunned the circus aside to allow the next guests to be presented to the Queen. Phillip stood beside P. T., who was chattering away about one thing or another. In truth, Phillip didn’t care much for what he was saying. He was too busy watching Anne and W. D., who were struggling to hide their bare skin with the lack of fabric on their costumes. It broke Phillip’s heart, to see the pair of them ashamed of the colour of their skin, in the presence of the aristocrats.

Unsure of what to do, he allowed P. T. to drag him over to Jenny Lind, the Swedish songstress. He convinced Phillip to introduce him to the singer, despite never having met her before. Jenny was beautiful, in the classic sort of way. Her hair was a vibrant red, and pinned up in a very fashionable style. Her dress was certainly magnificent, and she somehow managed to capture every eye in the room.

P. T. and Jenny struck a business deal, in which Jenny agreed to partake in a tour around the United States with him. Phillip excused himself, unable to stand by and watch as Anne hid away. He approached her, trying his best to ignore W. D.’s intimidating stare. “Anne, there’s somebody here I think you’d be interested to meet,” he told her, with a glint in his eye. He turned to look up at W. D., who towered over him. “You too, W. D.."

He led the pair across the room, with W. D. holding an arm around Anne’s shoulder. The pair might not have made up, but under the scrutiny of o many people, they clung to each other for support.

Phillip smiled as he sought out the person he wanted to introduce to the siblings. The woman was very pretty, with a warm smile and bright eyes. She was wearing an ivory coloured gown as lovely as she was. The Wheeler’s were surprised when they saw her, and struggled to hide it. The woman, who was clearly of wealth and nobility, shared their skin tone.

“Anne, W. D., this is Sarah Forbes Bonetta, the Queen’s goddaughter,” he said, politely.

Anne was at a loss for words. Fortunately, Sarah was not. “What a pleasure it is to meet you both,” she beamed. “Your dance was wonderful, truly a spectacle."

Neither of the Wheeler’s knew what to say. Sarah’s accent was not like theirs; a mixture of their dreadful upbringing and low class, but well-spoken and eloquent instead. Despite the lack of title, Sarah was clearly a woman of high aristocracy. She sensed the Wheeler’s confusion, and laughed. “It’s alright if you have questions, most people do,” she told them.

“How did someone like you - who looks like us - come to be the Queen’s goddaughter?” W. D. inquired, unable to contain his curiosity. Anne nudged him, shaking her head, but Sarah smiled.

“No, it’s a fair question. I was captured, in my home of One Odan, in West Africa, when I was five. I was a slave to King Ghezo, who then decided that I was to be a gift to the Queen of England. I was brought here, to Buckingham Palace, and then adopted by Captain Frederick E. Forbes, and his wife."

As former slaves themselves, W. D. and Anne were fascinated. “And the whites - they accept you?” Anne asked.

Sarah took time to conceive her answer. “Some do, some only pretend because they wish to be in the Queen’s favour,” she explained. “I presume that you were asked to eat in a separate room last night? That’s not because the Queen wishes it so, it’s because she knows that her guests will riot. Things are changing, though. My fiancé is a wealthy Captain. There was a time, not that long ago, when both of us would be penniless, and chained up somewhere."

Subconsciously, Phillip glanced over at Anne, and was surprised to see her already looking at him. Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she quickly turned her attention back to Sarah.

“Is your fiancé . . . is he white?” she asked Sarah, with baited breath.

Flitting her eyes between Phillip and Anne, almost as if she suspected something, Sarah shook her head. “Captain Davies is black,” she answered. “We may not have anti-miscegenation laws here in Britain, but it is still frowned upon by some to marry between races."

Phillip frowned. “Anti-miscegenation laws? What’s that?"

“We have them in America. They’re laws that make marrying somebody not of your race illegal,” W. D. told Phillip, sternly.

Suddenly, everything made sense. The way everybody pitied the pair of them, reminding him to give Anne her space. Charity Lettie, even P. T.; they all knew. Nobody had thought to tell Phillip. W. D.’s immediate disapproval of Phillip wasn’t personal - or at least he hoped not. It was because knew that his sister could never be with Phillip. Anne’s hesitation to let him in was because she knew that any possibility of a relationship would not only be frowned upon, but be illegal. Phillip felt sick. Physically sick. He looked across at Anne, wanting to comfort her in some kind of way, only to find her unable to meet his eyes. He truly was a fool. How could he not know such a law existed?

 _Because you’ve never been in love before, let alone with a coloured person,_ he reminded himself.


	14. "Ethereal?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip and Anne bond over their lack of sleep and fondness for stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I'm actually managing to update daily. Thank you for all your wonderful support, it's really helping motivate me!
> 
> This chapter was supposed to be longer, but I feel ending it where I have seemed like a much better fit - certainly after the last few chapters.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

Anne awoke early in the morning, very early in fact, covered in sweat. Glancing over at the bed next to her, she saw Patsey soundly slumbering, completely oblivious to her companion’s plights. Breathing a sigh of relief, Anne clambered out of bed, and crossed the room soundlessly - one of the benefits of being an acrobat was that she had light feet.

Opening their door, she tiptoed into the hallway, lit by candlelight. The floor the acts all were sleeping on also had a drawing room, which was where Anne found herself heading for. It had a stunning view of the city, and would surely be empty.

Her curls were plastered to her neck and forehead, and her breathing was shallow. She had dreamt that she was home, in the fields in Louisiana. She was happy, happier than she could ever remember being. Looking up, she expected to see her dear mama, but instead saw Phillip gazing back at her. His piercing blue eyes bore into her own, and that’s when she woke up, his eyes peering out at her in the dark.

She was conflicted by her dreams as of late. Her mama would tell her, as a little girl in New Orleans, that dreams were your heart’s way of letting you know just what you really wanted, even if your head hadn’t caught up yet. That’s why she would often dream of soaring high above the streets of New York, because she sometimes wanted to detach herself from all the whispers and rumours, and be where she was happiest; in the air. But dreaming of Phillip? She didn’t know what that meant. Well, she had her suspicions, but was scared that she was right.

Could she love Phillip? She knew she cared for him more than she’d like to admit - that much had been evident when she defended him to her brother. But this was the second time in three nights that she had dreamt of Phillip, and she was worried that it wouldn’t be the last time. The butterflies that grow inside of her when his eyes meet hers were undeniable. She would seek him in out in a room before anybody else, and her heart would either leap or drop if he was there or not.

These feelings were new to her. She had never been in love with anyone - she had never even kissed a man before. Phillip, she was certain, had surely kissed many girls in the past. He nearly kissed _her_ the night before, if his penchant for drink hadn’t spoilt things. He had confessed his feelings for her, in his own, poetic way, and she had been unable to say it back, branding him a fool instead.

Things would be completely different if Phillip was the same race as her. She wouldn’t have held him at arm’s length, and would have surely done something about those damned butterflies. However, if Phillip was black, there’d be no need for secrecy or stolen glances. Nobody would object to them being together - they’d probably be together now.

Sighing, Anne sat on the windowsill, looking down at the eerily quiet streets below her. Suddenly she heard the door creak open, and swung her head around to see who had entered the room. She felt like the air had been knocked from her lungs - it was Phillip.

He spotted her immediately, and averted his eyes when he saw that she was clad in just her ivory nightgown, that stopped just above her shins, and hung off her shoulders. A scarlet colour flooded his cheeks, and Anne couldn’t help but chuckle. Phillip himself was still dressed in the finery from earlier that day, though he had shed the jacket, waistcoat, and tie, leaving just the trousers and shirt - though they were both rather dishevelled.

“It’s just a nightgown, Carlyle,” she laughed. “I show far more skin in that leotard, which Barnum had me wear in front of the Queen."

Phillip laughed too, though didn’t appear any more comfortable. He stood, awkwardly, in the doorway, running a hand through his unruly locks. “I’m sorry I couldn’t sleep,” he muttered, with a thin smile. His voice was husky, due to the early hours, and Anne found it incredibly irresistible. “I’ll leave you alone to your thoughts."

As he turned to leave, Anne swung her legs off of the windowsill, and made her way to bound over to him, stopping before she reached him. He had swivelled back around, eyebrows furrowed. “Please, don’t,” she begged, in a breathy voice. Her eyes were unblinking, and searching Phillip’s own ocean-coloured pair. “You can stay."

Phillip smiled, genuinely this time. He closed the door, and waited for her to take a seat on the sofa before taking one himself. Anne folded her hands over her lap, trying desperately to ignore the thumping off her heart. This Phillip, the unkempt and untidy one, was different to the clean-cut immaculate Phillip he presented in the day. This Phillip had stubble, and messy hair, and a gravelly voice. He appeared more attainable, in comparison to the Phillip who wore bowties and shiny shoes.

“I’ve always been a light sleeper,” Anne suddenly spoke up, not sure what else to say. “Being in a different time zone ain’t made anything easier."

“I’ve been writing, well, trying to anyway,” Phillip replied. “The words have all started blurring into each other, so I thought I’d take a walk. I like this room, it . . . "

“Reminds you of home?” Anne suggested, with a knowing gleam in her eyes.

A little embarrassed, Phillip nodded. “Not my childhood home, with my parents, but the apartment I own. My drawing room is filled with books, just like this. Somehow makes me feel less alone, knowing there are hundreds of stories I can dip into."

Anne could understand that feeling. She would often lay awake at night, worrying about what the next day will hold - will the protestors put off crowds, or will she fall off the bars, or will the slave owners finally come for her and W. D.? - and listen to the breathing of the circus troupe all around her, in the separate rooms, and realise that whatever she has to face, she won’t be alone. “What were you writing about?” she inquired, curious. She had yet to read anything of Phillip’s, and certainly hadn’t been to see one of his plays. She knew he had to be good, as the reviews she had heard were glowing.

“You,” he told her, without batting an eyelid. She was positive her shock was written all over her face. “I fear words don’t do you justice though."

Anne wasn’t quite sure how to reply. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and prayed that her blush wasn’t too obvious. Phillip’s honesty never ceased to amaze her. The way he could say the first thing that came to mind with such ease, whether it was appropriate or not, was astonishing. He wore his heart on his sleeve, unabashedly, whereas Anne kept hers buried deep down, so far away that even she couldn’t hear it.

“Your dance with W. D. was sensational, by the way,” Phillip said, and Anne couldn’t help but notice how he had edged closer to her as he spoke. “I knew you could dance, but not like that. It was something else, something . . . ethereal."

Anne cocked her head. “ _Ethereal?_ "

“Heavenly, delicate, refined,” he answered, beaming.

The blush had definitely spread. “Well, I wouldn’t say it was heavenly, but I did feel good ‘bout it,” she chuckled, anxiously. “Me and W. D. have been preparing it for weeks, and we were intending to perform it for P. T. when we got back to New York, with the hope that he’d put it in the show. However, it felt right to do it here. They were expecting freaks and savages, and instead we showed them something . . . ethereal."

The grin on Phillip’s features widened. “So, is P. T. going to put it in the show? He’d be crazy not to."

“Apparently he didn’t hire us to dance, just to risk our lives on the trapeze,” Anne informed him, exasperation dripping off her words. “It’s not exciting enough."

Phillip suddenly frowned. “I’ll talk to him,” he assured Anne. “He has to consider it, at least.” She smiled back in appreciation.

Another silence hung over the pair of them, though this time there was no awkwardness. It was pleasant, and comforting. Anne scanned the room, trying to imagine what Phillip’s apartment would look like if this was his drawing room. The rest of it would have to be equally as luxurious, if not grand. She wondered if he had servants, or if he would cook for himself, and clean up after himself, and make his own bed. Speaking as a former maid herself, and slave, Anne knew that children who grow up surrounded by such fortunes, with servants who attended to their every need, they were highly unlikely to leave home and not take with them a servant or two.

Reminding herself of Phillip’s wealth caused her to suddenly remember his unattainability. She pulled herself away from the sofa, and wandered over to the bookshelf, under the guise of curiosity. She could feel Phillip’s eyes on her as she ran her fingers along the spines of the books, still unable to read the titles.

“Did your parents ever read stories to you when you were little?” Phillip asked her, legs crossed.

Anne shook her head. “No, they couldn’t read either, and slaves ain’t got nice bedtime stories to tell,” she explained. Then, she thought back to when she was a child, and her mama tucking her and W. D. in at night. She smiled, the memory giving her warmth. “Mama would sing to us, though. Lullabies from Zimbabwe to put us to sleep."

“Could you sing me one?” Phillip chanced, in a soft voice.

Anne was hesitant. “Not today,” she told him. She wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but she knew saying no felt too harsh, too definitive.

He understood. Instead, he smiled back. “How about you pick a book off the shelf, and I’ll read a bit to you?"

Excited, Anne nodded. She turned her attention back to the books, and closed her eyes. She spun around, index finger pointed, hearing Phillip chuckle behind her. When she stopped, she followed her finger to a dark emerald book, with gilded, gold writing. She held it out to Phillip, eager to hear the title. His expression lit up, and she immediately knew she had chosen a good one.

“Gulliver’s Travels, by Jonathan Swift,” he read aloud, his sapphire eyes sparkling. “This was my favourite book as a child. I must have read this a dozen times, if not more. You have good taste, Anne."

The spirit and passion in his voice, and they way her name sounded on his lips, sent shivers down her spine. She sat down next to hime, admittedly a little closer than she had been previously, and watched as he opened the book. As soon as he began to read, she was enthralled. The tale of a sailor who discovers, rather by mistake, a strange land was indeed gripping, and Anne wouldn’t let Phillip stop reading until he reached the end. He didn’t mind, really. He adored her enthusiasm, and how close she was to him.

By the time they had reached the last page, it was nearly dawn, and their eyes could hardly stay open long enough for either to return to bed. Instead, they fell asleep together, fingers touching, with Anne’s head resting on Phillip’s shoulder.


	15. "Ain't got anything to say for yourself?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though initially distrusting of Phillip, W. D. comes to a mutual understanding, with Anne's help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support, I love reading all the comments! I know this is a little late, but you can expect the next chapter up by tomorrow!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Not long after Anne’s eyes had closed, did they suddenly shoot open when she heard a commotion.

Though groggy from sleep, Anne saw her brother holding Phillip up against the wall by his collar, his feet dangling above the ground. W. D. was shouting questions at Phillip, all centred around Anne. Anger was evidently coursing through W. D., who was usually such a warm and friendly person, that it scared Anne to say the least. She bound over immediately, pulling at her brother’s shirt, trying to pry him away from Phillip - who was going rather red in the face - to no prevail.

“Get off him! Get off him!” she cried, desperately clawing at her brother’s arms.

“What the hell were you doing with her?” W. D. roared, ignoring Anne’s pleas. “Huh? Snuggled up like that on the sofa, I know what you were thinking!"

Phillip was shaking his head, though it proved difficult. Anne, who tried so hard to never let her expression give away what she was thinking inside, had tears in her eyes. The last time she had seen W. D. in a state of rage such as this, he had broken a man’s nose. That was simply because he had called Anne a ‘whore’ and the deplorable n-word; what would he do to Phillip?

“Ain’t got anything to say for yourself?” W. D. asked, shaking Phillip so roughly that the back of his head hit the wall.

Anne winced. “Because you’re suffocating him, W. D.!” she cried, moving so that W. D. could see her properly. His eyes flitted between Phillip and his sister, and his expression immediately softened, seeing her distress. “Please, let him go!"

Whether out of guilt or realisation that he was actually hurting Phillip, W. D. let him go. Gasping for air, Anne rushed to hold him up when his legs buckled. She glared at W. D., furious. “What was that for?” she yelled, seething.

W. D. looked down at his sister’s appearance; the cotton nightgown was most unseemly, and he he hurried to put an arm around her as if to protect her modesty, to which Anne pushed him away, harshly. He sighed, and pointed to Phillip instead. “I saw the pair of you, on the sofa. He was - "

“He was what, W. D.?” Anne hissed.

He flinched at the tone of his sister’s voice, and seemed reluctant to finish. “He was taking advantage of you."

Anne was outraged, and Phillip looked embarrassed. He shook his head, trying to explain himself. “We were just reading, I swear W. D., we were reading and just fell asleep. I would never take advantage of her."

As it dawned on W. D. that perhaps he had overreacted just a bit, and had in fact completely misread the situation, he reached out and took ahold of Anne’s arm as he intended to lead her out of the room. However, as quickly as her brother had jumped on Phillip, she wrenched herself free of his grasp, muscles tense and eyebrows furrowed.

“Do you not trust me?” she asked, bluntly, dark brown eyes narrowed.

“I don’t trust him,” W. D. replied, without hesitation. He was regarding Phillip with the sort of distaste one would look upon something on the bottom of their shoe. “The things I heard about him and other women, I wouldn’t have put it past him to try it on with you! He could have ruined your reputation if somebody else had caught you two!"

Anne appeared on the verge of tears. “I ain’t got a reputation, remember? I’m black.” With that she disappeared out of the room, leaving the two men she cared most about staring after her, speechless.

* * *

They arrived back in New York four days later, having convinced Jenny Lind to board the ocean liner home with them. Anne had emerged from her cabin one day, after having a good, long chat with the girls of the circus, and decided that W. D. was only doing his best to protect her, despite misjudging everything. She forgave him, though not until he apologised first, sincerely. With W. D.’s permission - though Phillip suspected Anne would have found a way around it if he had said no - the pair continued their reading lessons, with Anne making tremendous progress. She could now spell her name, and Phillip’s.

Phillip walked at the back this time, watching with a sense of joy as the circus acts laughed and chattered away ahead of him, all on a high after their successful trip to London. His eyes kept wandering to Anne, who was walking amidst Queenie and Patsey, her angelic curls bouncing. Grinning to himself, he didn’t see W. D. come up beside him.

“You like her, don’t you?"

Unsure of how to reply, Phillip said nothing at first, though he knew what his answer immediately. He had known ever since he saw Anne that first night in the circus, flying high above everyone, glowing and shimmering in the spotlight. He spluttered, trying to find the right words, but none came to him. Instead, W. D. took his silence to mean yes.

“You understand my concerns, don’t you?” W. D. continued. “A man like you, with a respectable family name and an inheritance, the like of which me and Anne have never dreamt of, thinking he can be with a girl like Anne, a former slave with a surname that’s not even her own and no money. You can’t really see a future with her. What will your parents say?"

Gulping, Phillip tread carefully. “They’ll disapprove, of course,” he told him. “But I’m beyond caring what my parents think."

“You know that it’s illegal, don’t you? That they’ll never let Anne marry you. They’ll arrest her, and you’ll be free to marry any pretty white girl of your choosing."

“I don’t want anybody else,” Phillip sighed. He knew W. D. was trying to deter him, put him off Anne, but there was no chance he’d ever succeed.

W. D. said nothing for a while, and Phillip couldn’t help but worry. What was he concocting in his head? How was he going to try and intimidate him now?

“Fine,” he finally said. “I can see you ain’t gonna be swayed that easy. Maybe that means it’s genuine. But if you hurt her, I’ll kill you. She’s my little sister - my only sister, alright? If you break her heart, I’ll find something of yours to break."

As W. D. walked off, Phillip didn’t doubt that the eldest Wheeler sibling had meant every word. He also couldn’t deny the little glimmer of hope in his chest as he realised that W. D., whether willing or not, and perhaps just giving them his blessing.

* * *

Docking in the harbour, Anne didn’t think she could be this happy to see New York again. After the stiff upper lips and stuffy ballgowns in Buckingham Palace, she relished in the noise and smells of being home. The walk back to the circus was considerably cheerier than the walk down to the harbour had been, with Anne walking alongside Queenie and Patsey, gossiping and chattering away about everything and nothing.

Mr O’Malley was his ever disgruntled and foul self when they arrived back at the circus, though his dipped his hat at them all in welcome. Anne swore she spotted him smile a little under all his bristle.

W. D., in his efforts to make it up to Anne, carried their suitcases up the stairs with ease, his strong arms capable of holding ten times the amount of their battered and beaten briefcases. She followed him to their room, though found herself distracted mid-step when she saw Phillip lifting the case off of the piano. She lingered, listening to him tap away at the keys, ensuring it was in tune. He grinned in delight when he discovered it was, and began a beautiful tune, full of spirit and soul. W. D. continued up the stairs, whilst Anne made her way back down them, her feet moving of their own accord.

She took a seat next to him on the stool, and though he did not cease playing, he turned to her and gave her a dazzling smile. “You’re rather good,” she told him, watching avidly as his fingers danced across the keys. For a man with as much muscle as Phillip, he played very delicately. “I didn’t know you could play piano."

Much to Anne’s disappointment, he stopped playing, to look at her. “My mother taught me,” he sighed. “Hoped it would help me catch a wife."

Anne snorted, then covered her mouth with chagrin, cheeks tinged a little rouge. “Yes, ‘cause that’s what every woman wants,” she teased, causing him to laugh too.

“I can teach you, if you’d like,” he offered, and Anne felt him inch a little closer to her on the stool. She didn’t pull away.

“I don’t know,” she replied, shaking her head. “With this and reading, I think there’s only so much I can take."

Phillip laughed again, and waved it off. “Don’t worry, it’s simple.” He showed her a very easy, very short tune, and asked her to copy. She had no trouble with that, so he carried on, this time making the tune a little longer. Each new tune he showed Anne, she was able to copy perfectly. Her memory was flawless, and her aptitude for learning on the spot was even better. It must be why she was so accomplished in the air, and so capable of memorising new routines and tricks at the drop of a hat.

Showing her one more, Phillip watched with amazement as she copied him, note for note. She turned to look at him, beaming with pride, as he leaned in to show her another tune. Their faces were inches apart, their eyes locked. Neither one dared to look away first, electricity buzzing between them. Anne’s breath hitched in her throat, as Phillip’s eyes broke from her gaze, only to glance down at her lips for a second. She could feel the warmth radiating off of him, and he smelt like the ocean breeze. Nothing was stopping her from leaning in just a little more and . . .

“Anne!” called voice from the direction of the stairs. The pair snapped their heads around to see Lettie, arms crossed with a stern look on her face. “It’s time to get ready, Barnum won’t wait for us all. Not when it’s Ms Lind’s big debut tonight!"

Blushing, Anne jumped up from the stool and bound over to the staircase, her dress billowing. Halfway up the stairs, she snuck a glance back towards Phillip, only to see him gazing back up at her. She smiled despite herself, and continued on upstairs. However, her happiness was cut short when she caught sight of Lettie’s apprehensive expression.

“You weren’t going to kiss that boy, were you?"

“Lettie!” Anne gasped, looking around to make sure nobody heard her. “Of course I wasn’t!"

The older woman was no fool. She could see, as clear as day, just what Anne felt for Phillip written all over her face, even if Anne herself didn’t know quite yet what it all meant to love somebody. She merely tutted, and allowed Anne to pass, where she fled into her room.

As she closed the door, Anne let out a large breath she didn’t know she was holding in. W. D., who was already dressed in his russet coloured suit, asked if she was alright. Waving it off, she instead assisted him with his orange tie, grinning like the proud sister she was, though her heart was hammering away at the thought she nearly kissed Phillip Carlyle _again_ t.


	16. "Shall we go take our seats now?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fateful night of Jenny Lind's performance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter I've been dreading to write is finally here. I've tried to make it extra angsty, if you can believe. These next few chapters are gonna be rough.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

* * *

The other acts didn’t understand why the Jenny Lind’s performance was so important to P. T. - they assumed he just wanted to raise the profile of the circus, and was achieving that by utilising a big name that would surely draw crowds. Their innocence was admirable to Phillip, whereas he despised what P. T. was doing. He had admitted it to him the first night they met; that he wanted to appeal to the high brows, and didn’t think he could do it with his troupe of outcasts.

Phillip stood watching as P. T. paced back and forth, brain whirring away, constantly checking his pocket watch. All of the acts were ready, despite Anne and Lettie. More than once had P. T. suggested that they head to the theatre without them, and he more than likely would have, if Charity had not placed a soothing hand on his arm and assured him that they had plenty of time.

“What’s keeping them?” P. T. sighed, brow creased. Helen and Caroline were giggling, running around in their new frocks bought especially for that evening. “Surely they know how important this is to me - to us?"

Narrowing his eyes, Phillip caught P. T.’s slip of the tongue, and glancing over at Charity, he saw she did too.

“You know Anne, ever the perfectionist,” W. D. explained, with a grin that slipped off his face when P. T. scowled at him.

“Well, she'd better be perfect or else why waste all our time?” he grumbled.

Suddenly, Phillip heard the two Barnum daughters gasp, and looked down at them. He saw that they were entranced by something, and followed their line of sight to the stairs. That’s when he saw _her_.

Intentionally or not, P. T.’s words rang true; Anne did look perfect. He’d been left breathless and speechless by her before. She never ceased to amaze him. Stood at the top of the stairs, Lettie grinning behind her like a proud relation, Anne appeared to be caught off guard by all the attention. Every single act, including P. T. and Charity, had turned to gaze up at her. She was wearing a jaw-dropping royal blue dress, with hints of purple, and a mesh top half, her modesty covered by a colourful butterfly. Her hair was pinned up, and a matching embellishment adorned her hair. On her feet he spotted the beloved gold boots she would wear for shows. The whole ensemble was certainly going to turn a few heads, including Phillip’s. He was completely mesmerised by her as she walked down the stairs.

As she touched the ground, Patsey and Queenie were upon her in a matter of seconds, fawning over her dress, and her make-up, and how beautiful she looked. Anne, modest as she was, gave all credit to Lettie, who appeared behind her, beaming. Apparently it was Lettie who had found the dress in with all the other costumes, and Lettie who had helped her with her hair.

“The only thing I did myself was put my shoes on!” she joked, as P. T. heaved a rather dramatic sigh behind them all.

They all turned to look at him, as he tapped his pocket watch. “Ladies, you can talk dresses and what-not later - we have a show to get to!” he told them, a little harshly. He then bound towards the door, motioning for them all to get a move on. In his wake, Charity apologised to everyone for his rude and abrupt behaviour.

“He’s just nervous, that’s all,” she muttered, pulling her sating gloves on. Phillip could tell that there was more weighing on her mind, but felt that he had no place to intrude.

The theatre was only around the corner, on the next street over in fact. During the brisk walk over, Helen and Caroline - excited to see their first Broadway show - did not stop chattering. Phillip found it endearing, and even held Caroline’s hand as she told him all about her ballet recitals, and how other girls were being mean to her.

Anne, who was walking behind with Helen, appeared beside Phillip. She gave him a small smile, before bending down and looking Caroline in the eyes. “You know, I was younger than you when I started trapeze,” she began. Whether it was the tone of voice she was using, or Anne’s Southern accent, but her words were so melodic. “People made fun of me ‘cause of my background too. Said I wasn’t good enough."

“But you’re fantastic!” Caroline spluttered, bringing a wide grin out on Anne’s face.

“See? If I’d listened to all those who tried to put me down then, I wouldn’t be where I am now, would I?” Caroline shook her head. “I don’t know why some people say mean things, but you shouldn’t listen to them, alright? Listen to your mama and daddy, and to me, and Phillip - we all care about you, and think you have such a wonderful talent. You ain’t gonna waste that because of some silly comments, are you?"

Caroline smiled, and wrapped her arms around Anne’s neck. Phillip saw the surprise in her expression, and watched as her features softened as she hugged the little girl back. The scene was heartwarming, to say the least.

They continued walking, Phillip holding Helen’s hand, with Anne to his right, whilst she held Caroline’s hand.

Helen, who had always been the more mischievous of the two, tugged on Phillip’s hand, catching his attention. “Tell Anne she looks pretty,” she whispered, causing a blush to creep up his cheeks. He nervously laughed it off, whilst she sighed. “Caroline, isn’t Anne’s dress nice?"

Her eyes glinting with playfulness, Caroline nodded. “Oh, it’s very nice,” she replied. “Phillip, don’t you think Anne looks pretty?"

Phillip suddenly felt as though he were under a spotlight, and swallowed. Previously, he’d been able to say just what he thought of Anne to her because he’d been helped along by the aide of alcohol - he hadn't had a drop in days. He looked over at Anne, who was instead glancing down at her feet, equally as anxious. “The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” he heard himself say, the words tumbling out of his mouth. Anne snapped her head to look at him, as though checking to see if he had meant it.

Aware that both the little girls were watching them closely, Phillip bent down and spun Helen around, earning a giggle from her. “You set me up!” he cried, in a teasing manner. After placing Helen back on the ground, Phillip turned around to find Caroline muttering something to Anne, something made the trapeze artist blush.

* * *

The four of them were the last inside the theatre. As they stepped inside, the heard the matter of seating being discussed. Helen and Caroline ran up to their father, and began tugging on his coattails. “Can we sit next to Anne and Phillip please?” they begged, Charity smiling down at them.

As P. T. started to answer, Constantine piped up. “Shall we go take our seats now? Everyone else seems to be inside already."

Immediately, watching as P. T. tried to formulate an answer, Anne knew that whatever he was trying to tell them wouldn’t be good. As he opened his mouth, she was proved right. “I’m afraid I couldn’t get you all seats,” he explained carefully, unable to look at them all in the eyes. “Charity, girls, I managed to get you a seat in the box, and Phillip, you can come backstage with me if you want, but the rest of you will have to stand in the back. I’m sorry, there’s really nothing I could have done."

Anne locked eyes with W. D., who merely sighed, as if he had expected it all along. She felt exasperated, as if she shouldn’t have bothered dressing nicely. P. T. was keeping them separate on purpose, she could see that now. This evening was about Jenny Lind, and high society, and the ‘freaks’ were being relegated to the back row.

“P. T., if you don’t mind, I think I’ll stand with everybody else,” Phillip told his partner.

Anne couldn’t help the butterflies that erupted inside her when she heard what he said. He glanced over at her, and she beamed at him. They walked into the theatre together, and stood side-by-side.

“What did Caroline say to you, outside?” Phillip wondered aloud, tugging at his jacket as though nervous.

Blushing, Anne smiled a little. “She told me she hoped that one day she could find somebody who looks at her . . . the way you look at me."

Phillip didn’t say anything, and Anne was worried that she had crossed a line, until she saw him grin, his cheeks flushing a slight shade of scarlet too.

Taking their places at the back of the theatre, Anne naturally stood next to Phillip. Her brother, present as always, stood behind them. As the curtains were lifted, the music began, and the ever elegant Jenny Lind appeared on stage, Anne felt goosebumps on her arms. She couldn’t imagine being stood in front of so many people, all alone, looking so confident, but Jenny did just that.

The lyrics were beautiful. Anne hung onto every word. The song seemed to have been written for her, about the unspoken chemistry between her and Phillip - and there was chemistry. Phillip, in a drunken stupor, had admitted his feelings for her, but they hadn’t been addressed before, and hadn’t been addressed since. Now, listening to Jenny’s bewitching ballad, Anne felt as though everything she had been too afraid to say was being sung for her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Phillip glance at her. In his suit, he was undeniably handsome. She felt anxious under his gaze, but also a little elated. Perhaps he was hearing what she was hearing, and feeling the same type of way. She felt him watching her, carefully, as he moved his hand to graze hers. She couldn’t help but gasp, as she locked her fingers with his. Then, they were holding hands. Her heart was hammering away in her chest.

This was a big step for them, a step towards a possible future. Showing affection in public in this way was not only scandalous, but it was dangerous. Yet, he initiated it. He wanted to touch her, to let her know that the song held the same meaning for him too. Anne couldn’t keep the smile from spreading across her face. She had loved him for such a long time now, without even knowing what love was, and now she knew that he truly loved her too. That rumours were just rumours, and the only thing that mattered was them.

Then suddenly it all came crashing down. Anne could hear whispering, and though she knew she shouldn’t look, she did. She found an older couple, wearing exquisite clothes and diamonds that sparkled, letting everyone know just how wealthy they were, staring right at her. The intensity of their glares was agonising. They were regarding her with such horror, and disgust. She’d have ignored it, if she hadn’t felt Phillip’s hand slipping out of hers.

When he pulled away, she felt like he took her heart with her. Shocked at how quickly she could go from feeling such immense joy to feeling completely numb, she turned to face him. The man she loved, who she was so convinced loved her back, couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t look her in the eyes. He didn’t have the decency to even acknowledge what he had done.

Anne felt nauseous. She felt cold, and sick, and humiliated. Most of all, she felt betrayed. Unable to bear standing next to him, she turned and walked away. Her legs were moving of their own accord, and the music had all but transformed into white noise. She needed fresh air, she needed somewhere to think clearly, she needed space. She wouldn’t have that trapped inside the theatre.

Making her way back to the circus, Anne wiped away her tears, furious with herself for even crying over Phillip. It was only around the corner, she only had to walk a couple of hundred metres.

She heard them before she saw them. They were rowdy, and they were unruly. Anne recognised them as a pair of protestors who frequented the circus. Feeling herself tense up, she sped up, hoping and praying that they wouldn’t recognise her. Yet, as with everything else that night, things didn’t go as planned. They dropped their bottles, and stumbled over to her. One of them stood in her path, whilst the other circled around her.

“Would you look at that, it’s the flying mulatto!” the biggest one slurred, looking her up and down.

Anne tried to barge past him, but he only pushed her back. “Don’t try and fly away,” he hissed, his breath reeking of the foulest alcohol. “I just want to get a good look at you, that’s all."

On edge, Anne tried again to shove the man, this time his friend caught her wrist, and yanked her back, hard. “You think you’re better than us, don’t you mulatto?"

Shaking her head, Anne considered calling out. Surely somebody would hear her, right?

“Look, she thinks she’s better than us,” the friend spat.

“I don’t, I really don’t,” Anne stuttered. “Please, I just want to go home."

The two men looked at each other, and laughed. “Home?” they mocked.

As they laughed to themselves, Anne saw her chance to run. She barely covered a few feet when she felt herself pulled back. Before she could say anything, one of them reached for her skirts. Reacting as quickly as she could, she slapped the man as forcefully as she could. Immediately, she knew that was the wrong thing to do. She should have just ran again.

The bigger man hit her in the face, catching her on her cheekbone, and knocked her to the ground. The pair of them loomed over her, calling her every racist slur they could think of in their inebriated states, kicking her. Anne curled into a ball and screwed her eyes shut, ashamed of how weak she was behaving, and waited for them to stop.

She didn’t have to wait long. Suddenly she heard yells, and a familiar voice calling her name. She didn’t dare look up, but knew right away that it was her brother. When the kicking stopped, and she felt a pair of warm hands hoist her to her feet, she opened her eyes. W. D. was holding her, scanning her for injuries, whilst Constantine chased off the men behind him.

“Annie, oh Annie, where are you hurt?” W. D. said, softly, though his desperation was apparent.

A wave of fear and disappointment and heartache washed over Anne, rendering her incapable to say a word. Her stomach was excruciatingly painful, and her cheek was throbbing. All the wind had been knocked out of her, quite literally, and she felt her eyes beginning to close again. W. D. lifted her up when she began to stumble, and ran home, calling to Constantine something that Anne didn’t quite hear. She was starting to lose consciousness, the pain becoming all too much, when she felt her head touch a pillow. She was out for the count then.


	17. "The doctor? Why?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip rushes home to apologise to Anne, after a quick stop at the bar, only to find her in a bad way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update - I've been away all weekend, and haven't had a chance to update. Hopefully, the next chapter will be up tomorrow!
> 
> Thank you so much for all the support!
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

As soon as Anne walked away, Phillip knew he had made a mistake. Every single fibre of his being was screaming at him to chase after her, to apologise over and over until his voice was raw and the words stopped making sense. He had betrayed her, he knew that. Seconds ago her hand had been in his, and he’d never felt happier. He’d taken the step to letting her know how he felt, sober this time, and she’d let him in. She had held his hand back, and though he could sense just how nervous she was, she held him tightly.

She loved him, just as he loved her, and he had allowed his fear to get the better of him. When he had looked over and saw his parents staring at them with such discontentment, and repugnance, he pulled his hand free. He was worried about what they would think of him, and not how Anne would feel. He pretended to be thoroughly invested in Jenny Lind’s performance, whilst he felt both his parents and Anne’s gaze on him. He heard her breathing quicken, and felt as though his heart was being constricted.

He couldn’t bear to look at her, didn’t want her to see what a coward he truly was. He loved her, but couldn’t show it, not properly. Anne left, and Phillip didn’t have the courage to follow. Behind him, he felt W. D. tap him on the shoulder. “Where’s Anne going?” he whispered.

Phillip shook his head. His parents were still watching him closely, and as he didn’t possess audacity to continue holding Anne’s hand, he couldn’t bring himself to turn and face W. D. either.

“What did you say to her?” W. D. tried again.

“Nothing,” Phillip muttered.

When W. D. didn’t utter another word, Phillip glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw him running down the aisle, and out of the doors. Phillip gulped, feeling guilty for allowing Anne to, quite literally, slip through his fingers. Anne, and the circus, were the first good things to happen to him in years, and now because of one stupid, stupid mistake, he faced losing both. When the other acts hear how he treated her, he’d never be allowed to step foot inside again.

Feeling sorry for himself, and throughly rueful and damned, after the performance ended in an uproar of applause, Phillip made a beeline for the nearest bar, around the corner, ignoring his parents. It was the one he used to frequent, as an up-an-coming playwright, and then as the award-winning playwright he came to be. The last time he had visited, it was with P. T., over a month ago. Had he expected that one fateful encounter to change everything? Certainly not.

The barman clocked him as soon as he walked in, and frowned. “Been a while since I’ve seen you in here, Mr Carlyle,” he called out to him, whilst serving a surly looking customer. “I assumed you’d gotten your life on track, perhaps even settled down. Perhaps not, eh?"

Phillip had nothing to say, merely slumping down in his usual seat and motioned for a glass of something strong. The barman, who had been pouring Phillip drinks since he was seventeen and convinced him he was old enough to be drinking in bars, leaned in front of him, and scratched his chin. “Is it true you’ve taken up with the circus?"

After finishing his whiskey in one, quick gulp, Phillip nodded, wiping the liquid from his lips. “You should come along,” he muttered.

“I have - twice,” the barman admitted. “Quite the show you have there. I thought it was doing well for itself, despite the reviews?"

Furrowing his brow, Phillip motioned for another whiskey. “It is,” he told him. “Why?"

The barman shrugged. “I was just wondering why you’d be in here, then, if your career is going well."

“Have you ever been in love?” Phillip blurted out, finishing his second whiskey quicker than he had managed his first.

“Ah, I should’ve guessed that’s why you’d be looking so down,” the barman sighed. As if on cue, he began pouring another drink. “Out with it then."

Phillip was trying to drown his feeling of heartache in alcohol, to no prevail. Instead, the retreating figure of Anne was burned on is eyelids, and was all he could see. He hated his behaviour, and his cowardice. He couldn’t even blame it on his parents, for it was he who had let go. “There’s a girl - one of the acts, you probably would have seen her, the - "

“The one with pink hair?” the barman interjected, knowingly. He grinned. “So she’s the one you’re in love with? You and half my punters. You should hear what some of them say about her after they’ve been to see the show."

Phillip grimaced, and clenched his fists. “I don’t think I do,” he grumbled, through gritted teeth. “Anyway, I am in love with her. Like, real, heart-stopping, punch-you-in-the-gut kind of love. I mean, there have been girls before, and plenty of them. I’ve never felt this way about any of them, not until Anne. She smiles, and the whole room lights up. She laughs, and I forget all my troubles. She has a heart as big as the moon, and she cares so much about people."

“So what did you do?”

Cringing at the memory, Phillip was reluctant to answer. “I was ashamed to hold her in hand in public. She’s black, you see, and my parents saw us together. I let go of her hand, and couldn’t look at her."

The barman looked thoroughly disappointed in Phillip. He took away his empty glass, and instead of refilling it, he gestured to the doorway. “You say you love her? Then what are you doing here? Go and apologise."

Phillip nodded, and felt a fool for running to the bar before running back to Anne. He assured the barman that he’d pay for his drinks another day, and raced out the door and back to the circus. He passed a pair of grumbling drunks, one sporting a fresh black-eye, and bound through the doors. Immediately he knew something was off. All the acts were milling around, at the foot of the stairs, worried expressions etched into their faces. Anne was nowhere in sight, and Phillip felt his stomach drop.

He tapped the shoulder of Patsey, who was stood whispering to Queenie in hushed tones. “What’s happened? Where’s Anne?"

Patsey scowled at him. “Nice of you to show up, Mr Carlyle,” she hissed. “Anne’s upstairs, with her brother and the doctor."

His breath caught in his throat. “The doctor? Why?"

Sighing, Patsey seemed hesitant to answer his questions. Eventually, she gave in. “She was attacked outside. W. D. had to carry her inside. She’s in a bad way."

Phillip felt sick to the stomach. _Anne had been attacked? How bad is bad?_ He pushed past Timothy, who was leaning against the railing, and climbed the stairs, without a second’s hesitation. He had to see her. Nothing was going to keep him from making sure she was alright. The door was ajar, and he couldn’t see past the doctor sat at her bedside. As the man stood up and moved to pack his things away, Phillip gasped.

Anne was pale. Her right cheek was deep shades of purple and blue, with a long gash seared into her flesh. Her dress had been swapped for a blouse and skirt, only for the blouse to unbuttoned up to her sternum as to protect her modesty, revealing a cluster of black bruises across her ribcage. As he gasped, her eyes landed upon him, wide and fearful. W. D., Charity, and Lettie, all who were stood in the room too, turned to look at the intruder.

“Anne . . . “ Phillip mustered, her name barely a whisper on his lips.

Before he could utter anything else, W. D. had crossed the room and held Phillip by the scruff of his collar against the wall again. The man was strong, there was no doubt about that, and fuelled by rage, he had the capability of breaking Phillip’s neck there and then. He wouldn’t have put it past the acrobat. Not with his sister lying in bed, broken and bruised, and Phillip as much as fault as the men who had hit her.

“Don’t you dare talk to her!” W. D. roared, Anne’s feeble cries drowned out. His grip around Phillip’s neck was tight, and growing tighter. “She wouldn’t be this way if you hadn’t of let her go in the theatre! She’d have been safe! I told you, didn’t I, if you hurt her that I’d kill you. I told you - "

“W. D., let him go,” Charity said, in a gentle voice. “You’re scaring Anne."

At that, W. D. let Phillip slide to the floor, and rushed over to his sister, who had tears in her eyes. Phillip watched as W. D. pulled the sheets around Anne, tucking her in so she was comfortable, with delicate hands that you wouldn’t think had been inches away from strangling a man. Anne’s lips were trembling, and she looked so vulnerable, and frail.

“Lettie,” she called out, in a voice barely audible. “Can you tell Mr Carlyle I’d like him to leave, please?"

Phillip’s heart sunk. He wanted to apologise, to make it up to Anne, to promise that he’d never do something so thoughtless ever again. Yet she could barely look at him. She had already started to distance herself from him again, calling him Mr Carlyle.

“We’ll all go, give you some rest,” Charity smiled, though Phillip could see just how concerned she was. She placed a hand on W. D.’s shoulder, and squeezed. “Of course you can stay with your sister."

Charity, Lettie, Phillip and the doctor all filed out of the room. In the little corridor outside, the doctor turned to Charity with a grave expression. Phillip couldn’t help but listen in, and saw that Lettie was doing the same. “Though it’s hard to tell, I’m quite confident that several of Miss Wheeler’s ribs have been broken. Keep an eye on the bruising, because if it worsens then there could be a possibility of internal bleeding. If there is internal bleeding, than an organ may be torn, and I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for her. I suggest she stay in bed for the next few days, with somebody to watch over her day and night."

“Thank you doctor,” Charity said, as she showed him out. Despite her calm composure, Phillip could see her hands were clasped tight, and the colour had drained from her face.

Phillip could barely stand. The doctor’s words had failed to fill him with any sort of confidence of Anne’s condition, and W. D.’s had only made him feel worse. Instead of Anne’s retreating figure, now when he closed his eyes, he saw her laying in her tiny bed, battered and bruised. He turned to Lettie, who through all her worry and woe, was regarding him with blazing fury.

“That girl in there loves you more than anything in the world, and you threw it all away to protect your pride,” she spat at him, prodding him in his chest. “What’s the worst thing that could happen if your parents saw you holding hands with a black girl? Stern words? Cut off your inheritance? You’re a grown man; have some guts. Anne was assaulted tonight simply because she looks different, and yet she’s always been more worried about your reputation if people _saw you with her_. Worried about what would happen to _you_ , when really she’s the one in danger. Your selfishness caused those injuries in there. If you had been with her, chased after her instead of hiding away, then she wouldn’t be in that state."

It wasn’t in Lettie’s nature to be cruel, but the words were just slipping out, her anger overcoming her. Phillip felt every word like a slap to the face, and wanted nothing more than to push open the door and throw himself at Anne’s mercy, begging her to forgive him. However, he wasn’t strong enough to look at her covered in gashes and bruises, not right now. Not when he knew he could have prevented them.

“Where were you, anyway? With Barnum celebrating with the other snobs?"

Phillip couldn’t bear to answer. He felt ashamed that he was drinking his sorrows away, whilst Anne was barely a street away, being beaten to a pulp. He didn’t have to answer - Lettie could smell the whiskey on his breath. She shook her head in disgust. “I thought you were better than this, Phillip. Clearly I was mistaken."

With that, she left him alone in the corridor, a door away from Anne. As he held back his own tears, every type of emotion cascading over him in waves, making him feel as though he were drowning, he could hear Anne’s sobs on the other side of the door. He could hear the pain in her voice, and knew that he was to blame.


	18. "Is she alright?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip, feeling sorry for himself, turns back to the bottle when the guilt becomes too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so overwhelmed by all the lovely comments that I'm receiving about this story! It's given me the inspiration to perhaps start another story - whilst keeping this one up, don't worry! - centred around Anne and Phillip. It may be original, or it may follow the plot of other films such as Titanic or Moulin Rouge. What do you all reckon? Which would you want to read?

* * *

Phillip couldn’t bring himself to leave the circus. He’d taken to sleeping in his office recently, a small, cramped room adjacent to P. T.’s. The workload had been immense, and moving furniture and props, filling in paperwork and paying wages had left him too exhausted to walk home most nights, and he would often find himself dozing off at his desk.

Despite his busy and hectic schedule, there wasn’t a moment of the day that Phillip wasn’t thinking about Anne. The night of her attack, Anne had cried herself to sleep. The circus had grown silent, and all the acts could hear her. It was quiet, but it was there, and it sent shooting pains through Phillip’s chest. It took until three in the morning for the sobbing to stop.

Just when Phillip’s eyes start to flutter shut, he heard Anne’s door open. Glancing out of the window, he looked across to the other side of the circus, and instead saw her brother. W. D. had bags under his eyes, and a slump in his shoulders. For a split second, Phillip considered going into the room and apologising to Anne, but knew immediately what a terrible idea that was. As if reading his mind, W. D. caught his eye, and grimaced. Looking away, Phillip found his gaze averted to the untouched bottle of whiskey on his desk.

Things had been going so well. Anne had been letting him in, sitting up late on the boat with him talking about all sorts. Work, though strenuous, had been fulfilling in a way he had never experienced before. The circus was starting to feel like home, the acts welcoming him with open arms. Now, that had all gone. Anne couldn’t bear to look at him, work was going to pile on top of him, and the acts were going to shun him when they hear what he did to Anne.

He hadn’t wanted to touch a drop of alcohol - hadn’t felt the need. After seeing Anne’s bruised frame, and the cold stares from W. D., he felt deflated, especially knowing that Anne was only in that state because he had refused to hold her hand in front of his parents. He reached for the bottle, almost subconsciously, and unscrewed the cap before he could think about what he was doing.

The next morning he awoke when the empty bottle slid out of his hand and shattered on the floor. Shooting up, the first word on his lips was ‘ _Anne_ ’. He had dreamt that he was watching her attack outside the theatre, and was doing nothing to help. His feet were frozen to the ground, and he could hear his parent’s voices in his mind. _“You have a reputation to uphold!”_ his mother had hissed. It was awful. What made it worse was that while Anne laid on the cobbles, frail and fragile, fists and feet flying, she was looking straight at him. She knew he was weak, she knew he was a coward.

Phillip tried to shake the nightmare from his memory. He stretched his arms up, his joints all tense. Where his head had been resting against his typewriter, the imprints of the letters were etched lightly on his cheek. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and winced at the dull throbbing in his head. He knelt down, and started to sweep the glass into his hand. He had plenty of messes to clean up that day; he might as well start with this one.

* * *

Understandably, the second Phillip stepped out of his office, and walked down the stairs, he was ignored and shunned by every single act. Either Lettie or W. D. had informed them of his horrendous mistake during Jenny Lind’s performance, and everybody had rightly chosen to sympathise with Anne. She was the youngest of all the acts, and adored by everyone, so to hear that Phillip had betrayed and humiliated her over something as foolish as his pride angered and disappointed them all.

Constantine, who Phillip later discovered had been there to chase off Anne's attackers, deliberately knocked Phillip into a podium as he passed him. The other acts who were present, Weronika and Maria Novak, the albino twins from Poland, and Ludger Brühl, the German snake-charmer, had merely stepped over him. Phillip contemplated laying there for the rest of the day, wallowing in self-pity and self-loathing, when he heard a soft sigh above him.

Looking up, he spotted Charity with her arms crossed, concern written all over her face. She helped Phillip to his feet, and watched as he dusted himself off. Judging from her expression, he knew that she was disappointed in him.

“Is she alright?” Phillip heard himself asking, sounding pathetic.

Charity shook her head. “No, not really,” she answered, bluntly. Her features then softened, and she took a seat on one of the benches, and motioned for Phillip to join her. “Physically, she’s recovering. Her bruising is bad, and the cut on her face was stitched up this morning, but there’s no sign of internal bleeding which is a positive."

Despite the news about the stitches and the bad bruising, Phillip felt a little relieved. She was recovering, not dying. Last night, he had feared the worst. Now, there was at least hope that she’d get better, even if it will take a little time.

"Emotionally, however, she’s suffering. She’s heartbroken. What you did, Phillip, it’s more serious than I think you realise,” Charity continued, softly. “She feels like you’ve been toying with her heart this whole time. She doesn’t trust you. Between last night, and what they say about you in the papers, she thinks that for you this has all just been a fling. Something to discard after . . . after you’ve gotten what you wanted."

Phillip hung his head in his hands, ashamed. “It’s never been about that,” he sighed.

“Well, you were too embarrassed to hold her hand in front of your parents, Phillip,” Charity told him, sounding exasperated. “Because she’s black? How do you think that makes her feel? That all day she’s being judged by strangers for being a different colour, threatened and harassed. Those injuries you saw last night, they were done by people who don’t like her skin colour. When you let go of her hand, you became one of those people. Someone who didn’t think she was good enough to stand with the whites."

“I’d never think that!” Phillip exclaimed, blood boiling. “And I’m not one of _those_ people who could do . . . something like _that_ to her, treat her that way."

“So why did you let go?"

Phillip couldn’t answer. It had all happened so fast. He noticed his parents watching them, and had felt the urge to pull his hand free from Anne’s. Why? He wasn’t embarrassed by her, certainly not. She was beautiful, and talented, and kind, whilst he was a coward with a drinking problem. “I was afraid,” Phillip admitted. “Afraid of what they’d think. About me and Anne. What they’d say, and do."

Charity didn’t appear to be surprised by his answer. She merely stood up, and turned to leave, but not before turning back to say; “What sad irony. You’re afraid about what people will say and do about you being with Anne, when at the end of the day, you’re not the one in danger. You were never in any danger."

As Charity walked away, Phillip couldn’t help himself as he jumped to his feet. “I love her!” he shouted after Charity’s retreating figure.

“You have a funny way of showing it,” Charity called back, making her way up the stairs into P. T.’s office.

* * *

Anne didn’t come out of her room all day. Occasionally, W. D. would emerge to fetch some water, or more blankets, but he didn’t say much. He would perhaps whisper something into Charity or Lettie’s ear, and the two women would rush up to attend to the trapeze artist, but other than that there wasn’t much else. Fortunately Jenny’s performance had brought them in plenty of money, that P. T. was able to cancel the next few shows, so that Anne could rest properly without feeling as though she was letting anybody down.

She didn’t leave her room the next day either. Phillip was itching to go down to the bar and drink his body weight in alcohol, but didn’t want to miss any news. Instead, he sat miserably in his office, staring blankly at the typewriter in front of him, trying desperately to write something. He’d lost all inspiration. Instead, he drunk himself into a stupor.

He slept until lunch the next day, waking up to the sounds of a commotion downstairs. Tucking his shirt in, and wiping the drool from the corner of his lips, he walked to the window, his eyes struggling to adjust to the light. What he saw was Anne up and about, clad in her rehearsal clothes, arguing with the others. Phillip wasted no time in bounding down the stairs and joining them in the sandpit.

Anne’s eyes grazed over him for a second before he saw her jaw tighten, and she turned her attention back to her brother, who was trying to tell her to go back to bed. Phillip tried not to stare at the cut on her right cheek, the length of a cigarette, and stitched messily together. The bruising was still as prominent, though now tinged with green. Her arms and legs were littered with purple and blue splotches, and her knees were scraped too. Phillip was riddled with guilt immediately.

“ . . . You can’t possibly think I’m gonna let you get on that hoop, do you?” W. D. asked, eyebrows furrowed. Clearly he wasn’t convinced that, despite the brave face she was putting on, she wasn’t well enough to be out of bed, let alone doing any acrobats.

“I told you, I’m feeling better,” Anne sighed. “And I ain’t staying in that bed any longer."

Throwing his hands up in exasperation, W. D. gestured to Lettie and Charity to help him out. “Honey, perhaps you’re brother’s right. There’s nothing wrong with taking a few days off,” Lettie tried, gently.

“I’ve had a few days off!” Anne exclaimed. “It’s just bruises, I’m not as weak as you’re all making me out to be."

Charity placed a hand on Anne’s arm, and gave her a small smile. “We’re not saying that Anne, but your ribs are broken too. Quite a few of them. They’ll take time to mend, and swinging around in the air will not help, sweetie."

“Three to six weeks,” Phillip piped up, feeling a little silly just standing there. The second he opened his mouth, the four of them turned to face him. W. D. looked ready to punch him, whilst Lettie and Charity merely sighed. Anne, however, was clearly fuming, and his presence was pushing her dangerously over the edge.

“What?” she spat.

Shuffling uncomfortably on his feet, Phillip coughed. “Um, well it takes three to six weeks for broken ribs to heal. I used to box, in college, and broke a few myself."

Anne stared at him, incredulously. “Who the hell cares?” she hissed, her voice filled with fury. “Do you want a medal?"

Phillip tried to tell himself that this anger was just a reaction, that deep down she didn’t mean it, but he was finding it hard to believe it. The fierceness and intensity in which she looked at him couldn’t be faked.

“Annie, just ignore him,” W. D. muttered.

Anne ignored them all, and turned back to the hoop, which was dangling just above their heads. Reaching up, Anne pulled it down, and tried to hoist herself onto the apparatus. She stumbled a little, but pushed away her brother, who caught her. She was determined to prove that she was capable, even when it was blatantly obvious that she really wasn’t. Her second attempt to climb onto the hoop ended much more disastrously. She slipped again, and cried out in pain. They all ran to her, including Phillip, as W. D. put his arms around her.

W. D. led Anne over to one of the benches, where he sat her down carefully. Charity perched beside her, and with permission she lifted Anne’s shirt up slightly, revealing her midriff. Phillip gasped, unable to contain it. Where the bruise had been deep shades of purple previously, they were now black. Anne’s breathing was shallow, and she was unable to hide the pain she was in.

“You should be resting, not practising Anne,” Charity told her, softly. “W. D., take your sister back to bed. She needs ice on that."

Before W. D. could do as he was told, Anne pulled away, standing up. Breathing in sharply, she tugged her shirt back down. “I know you all mean well, but I’m fine. Really."

With that, she disappeared backstage, leaving them all slack-jawed. W. D. sighed, and muttered something about his sister being stubborn. Phillip watched her walk away, and after the mess the other night, he vowed he would never watch her walk away again. He sped off after her, ignoring his nausea. He found her heading towards the lion cage. His footsteps alerted her to his presence, and she whipped her head round to face him.

“What do you want?” she sighed, and he could see that she was tired of fighting back.

Phillip tried to string the right words together, but realised that it was fruitless. He spotted the hurt flash in her eyes, and felt a stab in his heart. “I wanted to apologise, for what I did in the theatre."

Tears were threatening to spill in Anne’s chocolate brown eyes, and Phillip regretted bringing it up. “Oh, I get it,” she scoffed. “There’s nobody around, so you don’t mind being seen with me. Think you can talk your way back into my good books, that I’ll forget all about how I’m not good enough for you, and it’ll all be alright. Well, I ain't as stupid as you think, Phillip Carlyle."

Shaking his head, Phillip couldn’t stomach the words Anne was saying. “It’s me that’s not good enough for you,” he began, but Anne cut him off. The tears were spilling now.

“I know that whatever I thought this was, that whatever I felt for you, you don’t feel the same,” she said, trying to remain composed, despite the tears falling down her cheeks. “You’ve made your feelings very clear. That this was just the rich, white boy having a bit of fun with the poor, black circus freak, who was foolish enough to think that we could ever be friends."

Though Anne couldn’t be further from the truth, Phillip could see that she truly believed what she was saying. All he wanted was to rush over to her and hold her tight, and kiss her until she knew just how sorry he was. “I was never playing some kind of game with you, Anne."

"I know you’re ashamed of me,” she continued, her voice cracking this time. “But I don’t want to feel like a burden. I don’t want to make a fool out of myself anymore than I already have. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone."

Knowing that the best thing he could possibly do was to just comply to her wishes, Phillip nodded, and walked away. He continued walking, feeling sorry for himself, all the way back to the bar. As if he couldn’t stoop any lower, the barman didn’t seem surprised to see him.


	19. "What about us?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne is introduced to an audience member who is smitten with her, and while she finds him good company, she is reminded of her feelings towards Phillip.

* * *

Anne gave in. She agreed to three more days bed rest, if it meant that her friends would cease fretting over her. If there was one thing Anne hated more than being unwell, it was the attention that came with it. She could barely sit up in bed without W. D. rushing to push her back down. Yes the bruises hurt, and her broken ribs ached, but her heart pained her more.

After her run-in with Phillip by the lion cages, where she had spilled her heart to him and he had walked away, she had scarcely seen him. She supposed that was a good thing - if she was to see him again, she feared what she would do. Lettie informed her that he had been spending most nights at the bar, and the days shut up away in his office. He was either drunk or hungover, never in-between.

Anne felt humiliated. Everything W. D. had told her regarding Phillip, about the brawling, and the drinking, and the women had been true. Aboard the boat he had so easily lost his temper and broken a man’s nose. Had she not defended him then? She believed his passion to be directed at her, and while she made it very clear she could defend her own ‘honour’, a small part of her had appreciated what she had thought was his need to protect her honour, which in fact turned out to just be his anger. His drinking, well, she had always known about his drinking. She had forgiven it before, but now she just pitied him.

Now, the women she had refused to believe. She dismissed them as rumours, and hoped that’s all they were. She’d heard about his flings with actresses and barmaids and housemaids and flower sellers, but had refused to believe them. Her naivety had cost her heart. She was just another name to the long list of women, or she would be if she had let Phillip seduce her, if she had let her infatuation continue.

Instead, she closed herself off to him. Decided she was going to hold him _further_ than arm’s length, which is what she should have done in the first place. She tried not to think about him, and their reading lessons on the boat, and playing piano with him, and holding his hand, but it was difficult. She had fallen in love with him, and she was afraid that it was going to take more than three days bed rest to forget her feelings.

When her sentence - for that’s what it felt like - was up, Anne relished in the chance to come down and join the others when P. T. came to deliver some news. She dressed in her plain, grey dress, for it covered the bruises on her arms, and wore her hair down. Her stitches were still noticeable, but the bruising was fading. Fortunately, working in a circus had taught everybody the good sense not to stare at others.

She perched next to Patsey and Queenie, who gave her warm smiles and welcomed her back. W. D. also came and sat with them, though Anne couldn’t help but notice his gaze straying occasionally over to Queenie, whose golden eyes glittered. Anne bit back a grin, and turned to face P. T., Charity stood beside him.

“I have wonderful news! I have been propositioned a fantastic offer after Jenny Lind’s performance the other night, which I think you’ll all agree was a spectacular evening,” P. T. began, his last statement sending nervous chatter amongst the acts. Anne shifted uncomfortable in her seat. Spectacular was not the word she would use to describe how that evening went. “Owners of quite a few successful theatres across the country have asked if me and Ms Lind would take her show on tour!"

Despite his enthusiasm, P. T.’s ‘good news’ was not as well received as he had hoped. If he went on tour, who would be left to manage the circus? Who would be ringleader? Would there be any money, if it was all to be invested in this tour, to even continue with the circus, let alone pay their wages?

“What about us?” Charles asked, saying the words on everybody’s minds.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be leaving Phillip in charge,” P. T. answered, happily, as if that solved all their issues. For Anne, that only created more. Not only was Phillip in no state to manage anything, but this would mean that she couldn’t keep her distance if he was to take a more active role in the running of the circus. “He’ll be ringleader whilst I’m gone, which will only be a month, two at most."

“A few months?” Charity whispered, her lips tight with worry. “You promised me it would only be a couple of weeks."

P. T.’s confident facade was slipping. He was now realising that he was the only one truly excited about this venture. “Well, a few more cities have shown interest, dear,” he muttered. He turned back to the acts, and tried another grin. “I leave on the 24th."

“Of June? That’s only six days away,” Lettie said, arms crossed.

“What can I say, the crowds love a good act when they see one!” P. T. laughed, earning no reaction from the others. “On that note, there will be a show tomorrow night, so Lettie, I’d like to run through with you that new song you wrote, if that’s alright? And Constantine, if you don’t mind . . . "

He trailed off, giving instructions to all the acts, who euphoria at getting to do another show again was slightly marred by the news of P. T.’s tour. Anne saw an opportunity, and got up, walking over to the ringleader. He beamed at her, though his eyes flickered over her cut, and the beam faltered slightly.

“Anne! What a nice sight it is to see you looking better,” he told her, kindly. Beside him Charity also smiled.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I am, better that is. With that in mind, I was wondering if you could let me perform in the show tomorrow night?"

P. T. didn’t hesitate to say yes, whilst his wife was rather reluctant. She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, shaking her head. “Anne, dear, are you sure you feel up to it?"

Nodding, Anne couldn’t bear the thought of being shut up in her room whilst the others were all performing. “I’m sure,” she answered.

* * *

The show went brilliant. Anne was careful not to perform any strenuous tricks, and made sure to ice the bruises before and after going on stage. She’d gotten her stitches removed that morning, and managed to cover the bruises with make-up. W. D. was particularly cautious with her, his eyes never leaving her. When they landed on the ground, however, they received a standing ovation. Lettie’s new song, compellingly titled _‘This Is Me’_ , went down a storm too. All the acts were dancing and singing alongside her, and the crowd absolutely loved it.

Anne caught Phillip watching from his office, during the song. Empowered by the song, Anne stood her ground, and stared back at him, making it clear that she wasn’t going to be humiliated anymore.

After the show, Anne and W. D. ran backstage, as she was gasping for a drink of water. Her bones were aching, and her ribs throbbing, but the thrill of performing again meant that her pain was worth it. As she and W. D. laughed as water dribbled down his chin, they heard a cough behind them. Swivelling around, they saw P. T., still clad in his ringleader costume. Stood beside him was a family, all with skin as dark as W. D.’s. The mother was a friendly looking woman, with a dark brown dress on and a beautiful bonnet. Her husband was a smartly dressed man, wearing a dapper suit. They had three children; two darling little girls, dressed in matching purple dresses, and a son who appeared to be Anne’s age. He was undeniably handsome, and Anne was suddenly very aware of his eyes on her.

“W. D., Anne, great show as always,” P. T. told them, and then gestured to the family behind him. “I’d like to introduce you to the Coleman’s. This is Solomon and Eliza, and these two angels are Louisa and Mary. This strapping young man is Jacob."

Politely, Anne and W. D. shook the family’s hands. When Jacob outstretched his hand, and Anne took it, he grinned at her, and she couldn’t help but blush a little. She turned to the little girls, clearly twins, who were looking up at her pink hair in awe, and smiled down at them.

“The Coleman’s saw the show for the first time tonight, and were eager to meet the pair of you,” P. T. explained.

“It was Jacob, really,” Eliza teased, nudging her son. “When he saw you in the air, Anne, he wouldn’t stop talking about you!"

Anne’s blush deepened. She wasn’t sure what to say, but fortunately P. T. did. “Anne does manage to have that affect on people,” he chuckled. “Shall we leave them to talk?"

The Coleman’s, sans Jacob, and P. T. and W. D. left the pair of them standing alone, her brother sending her a supportive grin. Anne began unwinding the bandages from her wrists, anxiously smiling at Jacob. He was taller than her, which was rather rare - usually, she towered over most people.

“You were rather magnificent,” he finally said, tugging at his grey jacket. “Have you been an acrobat for long?

“I started learning when I was eight,” Anne replied, surprised that he knew what an acrobat was - not many people did. She was also a little taken aback by his accent. He was well-spoken, with no hint of a Southern twang, as most coloured people possessed. “Performed in my first show with W. D. when I was nine."

“That’s very impressive,” Jacob admitted, genuinely. “Is W. D. your brother?"

Anne nodded. “Your sisters are just the cutest,” she told him, gesturing to the pair of them. “How old are they?"

“Five,” he answered, with a proud beam etched into his expression. “I can hardly believe how fast time flies - they start school in September."

Anne struggled to hide her shock this time. She wasn’t aware black children were allowed to attend schools - she certainly hadn’t been. “School?” She realised how insensitive she sounded, and tried to remedy her slip-up, when she saw Jacob laughing.

“It’s alright, honestly, I was surprised too,” he assured her. “I was tutored independently, because my father couldn’t find a school in New York that would admit me. Fortunately for Louisa and Mary, we’ve been able to find a girl’s school especially just for coloured people."

It was nice, Anne found herself thinking, that for once she didn’t have to explain something, that the other person just knew. With Phillip, he just assumed she could read, assumed that she could perform for the Queen, assumed that coloured folk were free to marry whomever they pleased.

“Are they looking forward to starting school?” Anne asked, feeling a little more at ease.

“I don’t think they know what to expect,” Jacob sighed. “They’re really quite shy, takes them a while to come out of their shells."

They continued to talk, mainly small talk about the twins, and how the show went, but Anne liked it. It was comfortable, chatting with Jacob. He didn’t press her on matters, didn’t ask anything too personal. He was polite, and gentlemanly, and very attractive. The longer the pair stood and conversed, the more Anne found herself smiling more, even laughing once or twice. She’d almost forgotten about her bruises, and broken ribs, and even Phillip, until she spotted him over Jacob’s shoulder.

Her heart leapt despite herself. He was dressed in an old and crinkled white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the buttons haphazardly done up, so that the top-half of his chest was on show. His hair was all ruffled, as though he had just woken up, and he had one suspender up, the other one dangling by his leg. Even from a distance, his blue eyes were captivating. Jacob was handsome, yes, but Phillip was hypnotising.

That’s when Anne knew she wasn’t going to get over him anytime soon, not even with Jacob.

* * *

Without even realising, Phillip had slept through the start of the show. He awoke, after dreaming solely about Anne again. Still in his finery, he walked across the room and peered out the window. He could hear Lettie’s remarkable voice, and though his head was splitting, he didn’t mind. Glancing down onto the stage, he spotted all the acts, dancing alongside Lettie.

He felt his stomach drop. Anne was dancing too. She was out of bed, and in costume, wig and all. Catching his eye, still singing, she didn’t waver. In fact, seeing him only fuelled her intensity, as she stomped the ground, not breaking his gaze. The song was about being yourself, and not being afraid to be seen - the irony wasn’t lost on him. He watched as she turned away from him, and back to Lettie, a wide grin now on her face. Feeling ashamed, Phillip backed away from the window.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he searched his office for a bottle that wasn’t empty. When he found one, the relief that filled him wasn’t enough to dull his aching heart. He drank drop after drop, until he’d managed to pass out again.

When he woke up again, his jacket draped on the back of the chair and his bowtie discarded on the floor, he groaned. He felt like a fool. Remembering what had led him to reach for the bottle again, he shot up, making a beeline for the door. He clumsily clambered down the stairs, and it dawned on him that he may still be a little intoxicated. When he reached the bottom, he saw the crowds streaming for the doors, chattering excitedly about the spectacles they had just witnessed. Plastering on his best smile, Phillip waved at them as they passed.

Suddenly, he heard one elderly couple discussing the beautiful, coloured trapeze artist, and how marvellous her hoop tricks were, and Phillip felt nauseous. Anne had been performing? Even though her ribs were still broken, and her body still bruised, she performed? Did P. T. really care that little for his acts, and more about the money that he had risked her health just to rake in a few extra dollars?

Frowning, he headed straight for backstage, pushing his way through the crowd, though mindful to apologise to those he disrupted. He spotted W. D.’s towering frame, and approached him immediately.

“What’s this I hear about Anne on stage?” he grumbled, his concerns falling on deaf ears. W. D. wasn’t listening to anything Phillip had to say. Instead he was watching Anne across the room, talking with a man he’d never seen before. A man who was well-dressed, and undeniably dashing. Phillip saw how the man was looking at Anne, and his blood boiled. She was laughing, and even blushing, and Phillip couldn’t ignore the jealousy surging through his veins.

“He’s better for her,” W. D. suddenly said, sensing Phillip beside him. “Won’t run when things get difficult. He’ll treat her properly."

Phillip’s hands balled into fists, and he gritted his teeth. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the pair, away from Anne’s face. She looked so happy, so carefree. A pang of guilt reminded him why she had been so miserable lately. As though she could feel his eyes on her, she turned to look at him, and he watched as her expression slipped. She tried to ignore him, but her eyes kept glancing over at him.

Not long after Phillip had spotted them, Anne placed a hand on the man’s arm, gentle and soft, and gave him a warm smile. She then made her way over to her brother. Phillip could see the man watching Anne walk away, a sheepish grin on his face. When he saw Phillip looking, he turned away, and disappeared.

“So, what do you think of Jacob?” W. D. asked, clearly aware that Phillip was still stood next to them.

Phillip knew he should just walk away, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Out of morbid curiosity he supposed, but he wanted to hear what Anne had to say about this stranger, and find out why she had been blushing. Normally, only Phillip could make her blush.

“He is lovely,” she answered, honestly. She anxiously looked over at Phillip, and continued. “He asked if I’d let him take me out for dinner, tomorrow, and I said . . . I said yes."

W. D. reached out and wrapped an arm around Anne, grinning. “That’s brilliant, Annie,” he said. He turned to face Phillip, an almost smug expression on his features. “Isn’t that great news, Phillip? A man whose not ashamed to be seen in public with Anne."

Before Phillip could snap back a retort, Anne pulled herself free from her brother’s grip, and fled to her dressing room, furious. W. D. threw his hands up in the air. “Look what you’ve done!” he exclaimed, glaring at Phillip.

Furrowing his brow, Phillip frowned. “What I’ve done? It was your stupid comment that scared her off,” he replied, the alcohol loosening his tongue. “Listen, I know you’re angry with me for what I did to Anne, but I can’t apologise more than I already have."

W. D. closed the space between them, pushing Phillip up against the wall. For a split second Phillip was afraid he was going to hoist him up by his collar again, but W. D.’s hands remained by his side. “You think an apology is going to make up for what you did? Her ribs are broken, because you were too cowardly to run after her. If you ever felt anything for Anne, anything at all, you’d let her be happy with Jacob. With him she can have a life, a life not hidden away."

With those final words, W. D. left, following his sister to the dressing rooms.


	20. "Shall we go?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne goes out to dinner with Jacob thinking it will help her to mend her broken heart, when she discovers it's harder to move on than she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of your comments are so lovely, and inspiring, that I just had to write another chapter as soon as I could!
> 
> Please enjoy!

* * *

Anne felt as though she wasn’t excited enough for her dinner with Jacob. Patsey, Queenie, and Lettie sat with her in her room as she picked out her light blue dress, and helped her to pin up her hair (and then helped to pin back only half her hair when the curls became too unmanageable), all the while chattering excitedly about Jacob, a man none of them had met.

They asked Anne questions about his eye colour, which she didn’t remember, about where he was born, which she hadn’t asked, and about where he was taking her, which she didn’t know. The deeper into the interrogation she got, the more she realised she didn’t really know anything about him, and the more she found herself comparing him to Phillip.

She couldn’t help it. It was a knee-jerk reaction, or so to speak. She couldn’t remember what colour Jacob’s eyes were, but she knew exactly what shade of blue Phillip’s was. They were the colour of shallow water, so light that they were almost grey. She hadn’t asked where Jacob was born, but she knew exactly what hospital Phillip was born in. He had pointed it out to her on the boat back from London; the Bellevue Hospital, on First Avenue. She didn’t know where Jacob was taking her for dinner, but she knew just where Phillip would take her. During a conversation in London, Phillip told Anne all about his favourite café to write in, and how if she was to ever visit she should order the biggest Danish pastry they have on the counter.

It was frustrating, how much Phillip crossed her mind. Even though she could hardly bear to be in the same room as him, the amount of times he would crop up in her thoughts was borderline unhealthy. As she slipped on her shoes, the girls still discussing Jacob, Anne’s mind strayed, wondering what Phillip was doing.

 _Drinking himself into an early grave_ , she told herself.

Lost in her own head, Anne didn’t hear Queenie ask her a question. Lettie had to tap her shoulder to alert her that somebody was speaking to her. Apologising, Anne looked up at the women sat on her bed. “Sorry, I was miles away,” she muttered.

Patsey smiled at her, and leaned in. “I was nervous the first time a man took me out,” she reminisced, then smirked. “I’m surprised that W. D. isn’t going with you both; that boy is the definition of over-bearing."

“W. D.’s just protective is all,” Queenie was quick to jump in. When she realised what she had said, she turned to glance at Anne, and laughed anxiously. “Right?"

Anne nodded, watching Queenie closely. Without all the gold embellishments and make-up, she was still a beautiful woman, and Anne knew that W. D. thought so too. Often she’d catch her brother drooling over the fire-breather during her performances in the show. “It’s the age gap, I think,” she sighed. “I’m twenty, and he’s twenty-six. For most of my life he’s been responsible for me."

Standing up and glancing at the stained and chipped mirror on the wall, Anne stared at her reflection. She frowned, running her hand over her dress. It was something she had made herself, out of an old tablecloth. Was it pretty enough to wear on an outing with a suitor? Or would he take one look at the sad dress, after only seeing her in her exquisite indigo costume, and run for the hills? She fiddled with her hair, and worried that after the pink wig her own locks would seem too dull, too plain. She’d also had to use make-up to cover the bruise adorning her cheekbone again.

“You look wonderful, honey,” Lettie assured her, sending her a warm smile. When Anne hesitated to smile back, Lettie’s eyebrows furrowed. “Are you okay?"

Before Anne could reply, they heard a voice shout up the stairs, calling her name. Her breath hitched in her throat when she recognised it distinctly as Phillip’s cry. She rushed to the door, opening it, and walked down the corridor and stood at the top of the stairs. Looking down, she expected to see Phillip dissolved and disorderly, a bottle in hand.

Instead, however, she saw him waiting at the bottom for her, Jacob stood beside him. Jacob was beaming, dressed smartly in a grey jacket, clutching a modest bouquet of flowers, but it was Phillip her eyes were drawn to. He was looking up at her, mouth agape, barely breathing. Clad in a loose fitting white shirt and black trousers, his hair neater than it had been the previous night, he looked the way he did in London, when she fell in love with him.

Trying to control her unsteady heartbeat, she made her way down the steps. As Jacob took her hand, she caught Phillip’s eyes. Jacob planted his lips on the back of her hand, and she broke her eye contact with Phillip, and looked at Jacob. She attempted a smile, though could feel the heat creeping up her cheeks. Phillip’s gaze and Jacob’s kiss were becoming too much to handle, all at once.

“Anne, you look very pretty,” Jacob told her, drinking in her appearance. “These are for you."

He held out the flowers for her; a bunch of pink and blue posies. She took them, gratefully. “Oh, thank you,” she said, smelling them. “Nobody’s ever given me flowers before."

“A girl like you should have flowers everyday,” Jacob replied, charmingly. He held out his arm to her. “Shall we go?"

Anne nodded. She glanced at Phillip as they passed, and wanted to say something to him, but couldn’t think of what. Fortunately, he beat her to it. “Stay safe, please.” The way he spoke the words was filled with such despondency, and anguish, that she felt conflicted. Why would he be affected so deeply by her going out with Jacob, and ask her to be careful? Did he actually . . . care about her?

She didn’t have much time to dwell on the matter, as Jacob had begun a conversation with her. Her arm linked with his, a bouquet of flowers in her hand, the pair resembled a couple remarkably. When white folks would pass, they would often cross the street as to avoid walking on the same pavement as them, or would merely turn their noses up at the pair. No difference than if she were walking with her brother, or any of the other acts.

They turned street corner after street corner, until they reached a bustling café. Anne beamed; most of the customers were black, and the sound of a piano trickled out of the doors. People were dancing, people were laughing, and people were happy.

“I grew up in this neighbourhood, so the owner’s a friend,” Jacob explained, as a pulled a chair out for her at one of the tables.

Anne closed her eyes, and breathed in her surroundings. Everything about the café felt familiar. The smells, the sounds, the sights. “It reminds me of growing up in the South,” she smiled. Looking around, she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen so many coloured people gathered together like this, the circus excluded.

* * *

After a plentiful supper of coffee and beignets, a New Orleans’ staple, Anne leant back in her chair, feeling fit to burst.

“What brought you to New York?” Jacob asked her, resting his chin on his hand.

“We were looking for work,” Anne answered. “Me and W. D. had spent two years in Pennsylvania. I’d been a maid for three separate families, and he’d done odd jobs here and there, mostly in construction though. What about you?"

Jacob grinned. “I was born here,” he replied. He reached up and pointed to the towering block of apartments across the road. “In that building, in fact."

“Do you still live there?"

He shook his head. “No, not any more. My father used to be an apprentice tailor. When his employer passed, he left my father the business. We were able to move into a townhouse, when I was four."

So his family were born-free? That would explain the well-spoken voices, and fine clothes. Anne suddenly felt more insecure about her own hand sewn dress. She wondered how he would react if she told him she had in fact been a slave, until the age of nine, though she expected he had already guessed, and was too polite to bring it up. He was an educated man; would he mind if she wasn’t?

They begin walking home when the skies grew dark. Anne couldn’t help but feel anxious every time they turned a corner. What if those men were laying in wait to get their revenge? It wasn’t just those two men either, it was anybody who opposed to two black people walking the street. She gripped onto Jacob’s arm tightly. Unfortunately, Jacob mistook her fear as something else.

As they stepped into the safety of the circus, Jacob leant in and kissed her. Caught completely off guard, Anne wasn’t sure how to react. The kiss was soft, and brief, but it was still a kiss. She’d never kissed anybody before. Jacob pulled away, and smiled somewhat bashfully. He reached out and took Anne’s hand. “Goodnight,” he muttered, as he went in for another kiss. This time Anne closed her eyes, and moved her lips in time with Jacob’s. It was nice, admittedly. Suddenly, Phillip’s face flashed in her mind. As Jacob kissed her, she found herself imagining it was Phillip’s lips on hers, his hands on her back.

Anne broke the kiss off, and when she saw herself looking into Jacob’s eyes, such a deep shade of brown they were almost black, she felt guilty for thinking about Phillip. She stepped away a little, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Goodnight, Jacob,” she told him, her voice sounding so small. “Thank you for tonight."

Grinning, Jacob opened the door, not tearing his eyes off of Anne. “I had a really great time,” he replied. “Goodnight, Anne."

The door closed behind him, and Anne sighed, holding her hand to her head. What a mess she had gotten herself into. It was clear that Jacob liked her, and thought that she liked him too - she had kissed him back. Yet, Anne had been unable to switch off the part of her brain that caused her to think about Phillip all night. When she wasn’t worrying about her clothes, or her bruises being on show, she was thinking about Phillip, even at the most inappropriate times, such as during her first kiss.

Despite everything that had transpired between the pair of them, she still wished it had been him that had kissed her.

Turning away from the door, Anne made her way to climb the stairs, when she nearly jumped out of her skin. Phillip was sat at the foot of the steps, an empty bottle at his feet. His eyes were fixed on her, and he appeared to be seething.

“You look like you had a goodnight,” he muttered, clambering to his feet, stumbling slightly.

Anne sighed. He was drunk, and she had no energy to put up with him. Also, she couldn’t look him in the eyes without remembering what her mind had previously been focused on. “Go to bed, Phillip,” she muttered.

“Jack seems _real_ friendly, I hope you know what you’re doing,” he continued, slurring his words.

“It’s Jacob, and you know it is,” Anne corrected, feeling her temper rise. “And it ain’t any of your business what I do!"

“It is when you’re kissing strangers in the doorway of a circus I partly own!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “Do you want me to fight for you, is that it? Because I will."

Though his last statement sent goosebumps across her skin, she assumed he was only able to say those things because they were alone, and he was drunk. Considering the past, these seem to be the only two times he’ll ever come out with anything as poetic, or ludicrous as that. Though, she couldn’t help but consider if these words weren’t coming from a place of deception, but instead from . . . jealousy.

“Please, you’ll wake everyone up,” Anne hissed.

“Do you like Jacob? Honestly?” Phillip blurted out.

Anne had to lie. She couldn’t tell him the truth, because then she would only look more a fool. “Yes,” she replied, her lips tight. “He’s charming, and he’s kind. I’m seeing him again soon."

She swore she could see the rage flash through his eyes, before it dissolved, and the same sadness that had been there earlier reappeared. “Well, I’m glad you’re happy,” he muttered. “I wish I could make you happy."

Anne didn’t think she could bear to hear anymore. It was too painful. She tried to push past him, but he took ahold of her wrist, and gently pulled her back.

“I know I’m a coward. If I was any sort of man, I’d have kept your hand in mine. God knows I wanted to. You didn’t deserve what I did to you, or how I’ve treated you. If I could, I’d go back to that moment, and do it all differently. I close my eyes at night, and imagine you out on that street, alone and being beaten, thinking that I don’t care about you. It breaks my heart, Anne, because I do care. More than I think you know."

For once that evening, Anne was certain that what he had said had been genuine. That he had truly meant what he had said. As he turned to leave, tripping on his own feet, she felt a sudden surge of bravery. “I imagined it was you,” she called after him. “When Jacob kissed me - I imagined it was you instead."

As quickly as it had appeared, the bravery dissipated, and Anne fled up the stairs.


	21. “Did you . . . did you mean what you said, yesterday?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Anne and Phillip come to terms with how their last conversation ended.

* * *

Not even a sedative would have helped Anne go to sleep that night. After an hour or so of tossing and turning in her bed, W. D. snoring soundly in his bed beside her, she gave up and threw the sheets off her. Sighing, she crossed the hallway, as noiselessly as she could manage, and creaked open the door to Lettie’s room. Due to her more active role in the show, for example writing the songs, she was allocated a room all to herself. It wasn’t very big, mind, but it was still more than she’d ever had in her lifetime. At the launderette she had been forced to sleep in a space no bigger than a closet, where they stored the soaps.

When Anne saw that Lettie was also sleeping peacefully, she felt a pang of guilt, and considered retreating back to her room. However, as though had sensed the younger girl come in, Lettie’s eyes fluttered open. She smiled warmly at her, and patted the bed, offering Anne a seat.

“How was it, honey?” she inquired, sweetly.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about Phillip,” she admitted, her words tumbling out of her mouth. “I feel awful. I mean, Jacob was so nice and such a gentleman, but I just kept comparing him to Phillip. I couldn’t help it. Even when he kissed me - "

“He kissed you?” Lettie muttered, eyes wide.

Anne nodded, the memory still tingling on her lips. “Even when he kissed me, I was imagining it was Phillip. How twisted is that?"

Lettie leaned in close, and clasped Anne’s hands in hers. They were warm, where Anne’s were cold. It gave her some comfort. “You clearly love him, and that’s fine. Getting over him was never going to be easy."

Sighing, Anne could feel tears prick at her eyes. The way her heart was thundering inside her chest, and her hands were trembling terrified her, but how she felt about Phillip scared her more. “What if I don’t want to get over him, Lettie?” she whispered. “He waited up for me to get home. Saw me kissing Jacob. There was pain in his voice, pain that I put there. I lied and told him I liked Jacob in that way, and he . . . he looked heartbroken. Then he told me that he’s glad that I’m happy, but he wished it was him who made me happy."

“You can’t trust that boy, Anne,” Lettie began, but Anne shook her head.

“You didn’t see his face,” she explained. “He called himself a coward, and said that if he could go back to that night, he would, and do it all differently. Lettie, he told me he cared about me. More than I knew."

Lettie appeared to be digesting the words. Deliberating her answer, she took her time. “How does that make you feel?"

“Conflicted,” Anne replied. “I want to believe him, because if he means what he says, then I think he could love me back. If he doesn’t mean it, then he’s been playing games with me, and I don’t think my heart could take that."

Placing an arm around her, Lettie held Anne close. It reminded Anne of being a little girl, and her mama comforting her after a nightmare, or a difficult day in the fields. Lettie was even stroking her hair, the way her mama did. If she closed her eyes, she was back in Louisiana, and back in her mama’s arms. Then Lettie spoke, and she was pulled back to the present.

“I wouldn’t have said it before now, but I think I’m the reason he’s been keeping his distance from you. The night you were attacked, and Phillip saw you with your injuries, I told him it was all his fault. That because he didn’t run after you, you were left vulnerable. I told him he was selfish. If I hadn’t have been so cruel, then perhaps he wouldn’t have resorted to drink again. Perhaps he would have faced up to his problems instead."

Anne pulled away, and looked Lettie in the eyes. She gave the woman a small smile. “Lettie, it ain’t your fault, it’s who Phillip is. Clearly he has a drinking habit, you didn’t need to say anything to provoke him to reach for the bottle again. Plus, you’re not the only one to have words with him. W. D., Charity - everyone has blamed him for my bruises. Even me."

“But you’re not angry?"

Shaking her head, Anne’s smile grew a little bit. “No, I ain’t. I thought Phillip had been staying away from me because I’d called him out, told him I knew he was just toying with my emotions. Really, he’s just been feeling guilty for what happened, and not been able to deal with it properly. No doubt W. D.’s told him to stay away too."

She stood up, and walked across to the open door. Turning around, Lettie was relieved to see her still smiling. “Thank you for listing to me,” Anne praised her, appreciatively. “I couldn’t have said all this to my brother."

Lettie beamed, and then furrowed her brow. “What are you going to do now?"

Anne yawned. “I’m gonna get some sleep,” she replied. “In the morning, I’m gonna have a word with Phillip. I need to know what he really feels for me."

* * *

Anne stayed true to her word. She collapsed into bed, and drifted off to sleep almost immediately. When she awoke the next morning, feeling considerably well rested for the first time since her attack, she dressed in her rehearsal clothes, eager to work on her act. She let W. D. sleep in - they hadn’t had many lie-ins in their life. It was early, and nobody else seemed to be awake, save for P. T., who was tapping away on his typewriter at some great speed. He barely noticed Anne, too engrossed in his work.

As Anne unravelled the rope from the post, she could hear voices coming from P. T.’s office. Glancing up, she spotted Phillip, looking as though he had barely slept a wink. He was speaking at substantial speed, not letting P. T. to get a word in. Frowning, Anne wondered what he could be so passionate about. When the conversation between the two men had finished, Phillip left the office, a wide beam spread across his face. Bounding down the stairs, he spotted Anne, and the grin slipped from his expression.

“You’re up early,” he muttered, not looking her in the eyes.

“I had a good sleep,” she replied, searching his face for any recollection of what she had said to him the previous night. “What about you? What’s got you outta bed so early?"

He blushed. “I didn’t sleep, not really. Too many things keeping me awake."

Opening her mouth to ask him what things, she was interrupted by P. T. calling her up to his office. She sighed, and replied that she’d be up promptly. Passing Phillip, she began the descent up the stairs, when he said her name. It was quiet, as though he was worried she would hear. Swivelling around to face him, she cocked her head to the side.

“Did you . . . did you mean what you said, yesterday?” he asked her, stumbling over the words.

She needed more clarification than that. “About what?"

Phillip shuffled on his feet, anxiously, his hands tucked in his pockets. “About the kiss. That you imagined it was . . . me."

Without hesitation, Anne answered; “Every word."

His bright blue eyes lit up, and the corners of his lips twitched upwards. Before he could say anything else, P. T. interfered once more, asking what was keeping Anne. She rushed up the last few steps, and pushed the door open. Her heart was pounding, and not because of the stairs.

P. T. was sat at his desk, a mountain of paperwork stacked up beside him. Though Anne couldn’t understand what the letters meant, she knew that it was all for Jenny Lind’s tour. Recently, that had become P. T.’s priority. She recognised the familiar yellow slips of paper shoved in a half-open draw in the corner as their wage packets, and felt a twinge of resentment for Jenny Lind. Just because she was elegant, and white, and appealed to the high society she got the recognition and the attention, whilst those who had been responsible for putting P. T.’s name in newspapers where discarded to the side, slipping away into obscurity.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, a little colder than she had intended.

P. T. didn’t seem to pick up on her tone, and grinned at his acrobat. “It’s more what I can do for you, Anne,” he told her, clasping his hands together. “If I remember rightly, your birthday is in August? That’s just over a month away, yes?"

Anne nodded.

“Well, seeing as there’s a high chance I won’t be here for your actual birth _day_ , I’ve decided to give you your gift early,” he began.

Surprised, Anne shook her head. “You don’t have to do that, I wasn’t expecting - "

Waving her objections off, P. T. continued. “Nonsense, you’re one of my best acts, Anne, of course I’m going to get you a gift,” he explained, grinning. “How does a ticket to the theatre sound?"

Anne could barely register what the ringleader was saying. Tickets to the theatre? For her? Ever since she had left the plantation, and discovered all the things she had missed out on, the theatre was the one place she had longed to visit the most. Her brother had once snuck them in through the backdoor in the Walnut Street Theatre in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania when she was eighteen, claiming they were stagehands, and they’d managed to watch the first twenty minutes of _Giselle_ , the French romantic ballet, before they were found out. The disastrous trip to Jenny Lind’s performance the other night had been as close as she had gotten to a real trip to the theatre, though without a seat, does it even count?

“Are you sure? I mean, are they even gonna let me in?” Anne didn’t want to sound ungrateful, but she couldn’t accept something knowing that there’s a chance that she might not even be allowed through the doors. She thought back to the vendor outside Broadway, and the nature in which he had leered and sneered at her made her feel sick.

“I’ll make sure that they’ll let you in, you have nothing to worry about,” he assured her, carefully. “Now, any questions?"

“What am I watching? And when is it? And can I bring W. D.?” Anne burst, eagerly.

P. T. chuckled. “I believe it’s _Twelfth Night_ , and it’s tomorrow night. I’m afraid I’ve only got you one ticket, but you don’t mind, do you?"

In truth, Anne would rather have company - especially after the other night, when she had walked home from Broadway alone. But she smiled anyway, and thanked P. T. for his generosity. She left the office, and found that Lettie had also awoken, and was stood talking with Phillip. When she noticed Anne, she patted Phillip’s shoulder, and walked over to her.

Anne furrowed her eyebrows, and narrowed her eyes. “What were you talking with Phillip about?” she asked him, making sure the aforementioned didn’t hear her.

“I just asked him why he was grinning like a madman,” Lettie replied, smirking. “And he told me you’d given him cause to be happy."

Blushing, Anne looked past her shoulder, and over at Phillip, who was already beginning to unpack the benches for that night’s show. She smiled at him, when he saw her watching. It was a genuine smile.

* * *

Anne’s words kept replaying in Phillip’s mind all night. ‘I imagined it was you, I imagined it was you, I imagined it was you’. He laid in his makeshift cot, one he had brought in when the work had began to get abundant, wide awake. He’d been drinking pretty heavily when Anne left for dinner with Jacob, and worried that he had hallucinated the whole thing. However, the words sounded so real in his head, that he wanted to believe them.

By the time the sun had risen, he had sobered up. He had spent the whole night thinking of Anne, and how there was a chance that despite all the awful things he had put her through, she still loved him. She had looked so pretty in her blue dress, her hair pinned back nicely, that watching her leave with another man had been hard to stomach. Especially when that man was allowed to tell her that she was pretty, and give her flowers, and hold her hand. Phillip knew that he may not be as completely clued up on the laws and rights of African Americans as he should be, but he did know that if he tried to take Anne out to dinner like Jacob did, there’d be plenty more stopping them from stepping out the doors.

That made Phillip feel some type of jealousy he had never felt before. He’d wanted to kiss Anne the second he’d laid eyes on her, soaring through the air. He’s wanted to kiss Anne the way Jacob did, hold her as closely as he could. What Anne had told him, about her imagining it was his lips she was kissing, had filled him with enough hope that his jealousy faded away into the background.

When he sat up, unable to pretend like he was trying to fall asleep anymore, he began pacing around the room. He had begun wondering what to do next time he saw Anne. Would he behave as though their conversation had never happened, or the opposite? He didn’t quite know. No, he decided, he wouldn’t play games with her. That’s what she accused him of, and despised him for.

Thinking back to what she had told him about Jacob, and how she had said she liked him and was going to see him again. There was no telling whether or not she had meant that, but judging from her last words to him, he suspected she had said them in a fit of anger. Even the mere thought of her dressing up pretty again, with her hair all done, only to leave with him, was something that made his blood boil. He wanted to be the man stood by the door, holding the bouquet of flowers, telling her that she deserves all the flowers in the world.

That’s when it struck him. Anne’s birthday was soon. He remembered because she had told him that she didn’t know what day she was born on, only that it was in August. Admittedly, it was a month and a bit away, but he couldn’t wait any longer. His idea had to be executed within a matter of days, or else the momentum would be lost.

Eagerly, he opened the door to his office, and walked the few steps between his office, and P. T.’s office. He knocked, and was glad to see P. T. awake, and sat at his desk, typing away. His business partner greeted him, barely looking up from the typewriter.

“I have an idea,” Phillip said, not wanting to wait any longer. “I need your help."

This got P. T.’s attention. He stopped typing, and crossed his arms. “Oh?"

“It’s Anne’s birthday in August, and I’d like you to give her a present,” he explained. P. T. raised an eyebrow. “See, the present is from me, but I need you to give it to her. If she knows it’s from me, she won’t take it. It’s just tickets, to the theatre. Tell her there’s only one though, I can’t risk her taking somebody else. I want to go with her, you see. I want to be the man to wait in the doorway and give her flowers. I’ll give you the money for them, don’t worry, they just need to be in your name. They’re showing _Twelfth Night_ , and I think Anne would like it."

When Phillip stopped talking, he saw P. T. lean in, and feared that he’d decline, tell him that he was being too forward. Then P. T. laughed, nodding. “Of course,” he agreed. “When do you want me to give them to her?"

Phillip grinned. “Today, please. If it’s no trouble."

Shaking his head, P. T. assured him it wasn’t. “If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I’m a hopeless romantic, Phillip."


	22. “Mr Barnum said he’d left a ticket for me?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Phillip's ill-fated theatre date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's comments have been so lovely!
> 
> The next chapter is going to be difficult to write, I can just tell. I've added more dialogue between Phillip and his parents, just because it didn't make sense how in those few extra seconds Anne was able to run home and get dressed.
> 
> Also, who watched the Oscars? I'm so gutted that Keala, Benj and Justin didn't win, they absolutely deserved to have taken home that award! On a lighter note, did you see Zendaya's dress!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

* * *

As if she had read her mind, Lettie appeared in Anne’s doorway clutching a vibrant green dress. Anne had previously been stood looking between her only two dresses, miserably trying to decide which one made her look less like an outsider. She was to be going to Broadway, sitting amongst ladies and gentleman of the upper classes. She couldn’t wear a dress she had made out of a tablecloth.

Clasping her hands together, she marvelled at the dress Lettie had found. Just like the red skirt she had dug out of the circus wardrobe, Lettie found the most delightful of things. Take the green dress for example, there certainly wasn’t going to be another one like it at the theatre.

“Oh Lettie, I love it,” she gasped, beaming. Without a moment’s hesitation she shrugged off her rehearsal clothes, and and slipped on the dress. The material felt like real satin, and the embellishment sparkled in the candlelight. The bright pink material was eye-catching too. She turned to glance at her reflection, smoothing down the dress. “It ain’t a bit much for the theatre?"

Shaking her head, Lettie looked at the acrobat, her eyes filled with pride. “Honey, you look absolutely stunning,” she grinned.

“P. T. told me the play tonight is _Twelfth Night_ ,” Anne explained, happily. She was brimming with excitement. “That’s Shakespeare, ain’t it?"

Lettie nodded. “I think so."

Staring back at her reflection, Anne began to twist her hair up, pushing pins into the dark brown curls. “If only my mama could see me know, wearing fancy gowns and attending the theatre to see Shakespeare,” she muttered, disbelieving. “She’d say ‘Shakespeare who?’"

Chuckling, Lettie leaned against the doorframe. “I think I’d like your mama,” she said.

Anne smiled, wistfully. “I think she’d like you too."

After pinning her hair up, Anne turned back to Lettie. Suddenly, Constantine and W. D. appeared in the doorway, behind Lettie. Both men stopped when they noticed Anne, and both of them grinned. Her brother folded his arms, and the proud expression on his face made him resemble their daddy even more than usual. “You look lovely Annie,” he told her.

“Give us a twirl!” Constantine exclaimed.

Obliging, Anne held out her dress, and span around in a circle. She laughed, and the others laughed. Their laughter attracted others, and soon a crowd had gathered outside Anne and W. D.’s small room to stand in awe at her in her dress. They had all spent so much time goggling and gaping at Anne, that she hadn’t even noticed the clock ticking away on her bedside table, until Lettie pointed it out.

Saying goodbye to everyone, Anne fled down the stairs, and out of the door of the circus. She walked, rather briskly, to the theatre on Broadway, allowing herself a few brief moments to stare up at the grand building. Though she had jested about it, Anne found herself wondering just what her mama would say should she know what Anne was doing, what any of the slaves on the Wheeler plantation would say.

Taking the sight in, though hardly able to believe it, Anne stepped through the entrance, clutching her purse with some trepidation. Barely one foot inside the door, and people had already begun to look at her as though she were a fish out of water. Taking a deep breath, she remembered what P. T. had told her, and how he promised to assure her a seat. With that in mind, she made her way towards the box office.

The vendor on the counter was a middle-aged man, who despite his uptight demeanour could not hide his shock at seeing a coloured girl in the theatre.

“Have you reserved a ticket?” he asked her, in a tone that suggested had did not expected her to have any such thing.

When she nodded, his eyebrow twitched. “Anne Wheeler,” she informed him, looking down at her hands. “Mr Barnum said he’d left a ticket for me?"

The vendor reluctantly plucked two tickets from the register, sliding them across the table as though he were making some sort of illegal transaction. Anne shook her head. “Oh, I’m sorry, I believe it was only supposed to be one."

“No, there’s meant to be two,” came a voice from behind her, a voice she could recognise anywhere. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she turned around slowly. Her ears had not failed her; stood beside her was none other than Phillip Carlyle. He too had dressed in his finery, and for the first time in a long time she could not smell any alcohol on his breath. There was a hopeful glint in his bright blue eyes, as he took the tickets from the vendor. “I wasn’t sure you’d come if I asked."

* * *

Phillip felt as though he’d been chasing after P. T. all day. The ringleader was two days away from leaving for his tour across America, with Jenny Lind, and the pressures were starting to get to him. He was offloading work onto O’Malley and Phillip, whilst he ran around after Jenny, picking out outfits and other trivial things. It infuriated Phillip, how easily P. T. could forget his responsibilities here in New York, in the circus and with his family.

However, what frustrated him more was how inconsiderate P. T. was managing to be whilst handling with the whole situation. By investing so much money in Jenny’s tour, dropping everything at a moment’s notice to chase her around the country, sent out a message to the other acts that they weren’t good enough. That the likes of Jenny Lind, with all her jewels and fair skin, was worthy of being put up on a stage to millions in America, millions of wealthy ladies and gentleman, whilst they had to remain in the dust and dirt, performing for those not too embarrassed to buy a ticket, or who only wished to mock.

Whilst P. T. barked order after order at Phillip, he found himself watching Anne, almost mournfully, out of the window. She was rehearsing a new trick that involved a backflip off her hoop, letting go, and free falling into the arms of several of the acts waiting below her. It involved a high level of skill, and even more faith. She was swinging from her bar, legs dangling, eyes closed. Her brother was down below, instructing the others how to stand and where _not_ to put their hands, whilst she waited high above them all.

Anne was impossibly beautiful. She had been from the moment he had first spotted her. Her hair was free, dark hazel locks bouncing all around her. Her hands gripped the wire holding the bar, and her toes tapped to a rhythm playing in her mind. Her lips were curled into a pleasant smile, whatever she was thinking about clearly causing her some happiness. Just as she had begun to swing, gathering momentum, Phillip heard P. T. slam something onto his desk.

Flinching, Phillip swivelled around immediately. P. T. was marvelling at a freshly-printed poster, depicting Jenny Lind ‘The Swedish Songbird’. He sighed, glancing between P. T. and the poster.

“Why can’t you just put more shows in New York?” he asked, exasperated. He’d said it before, but he was going to say it again. "Why do you need to tour the country?"

P. T. grinned. "Why did Napoleon march on Russia?"

Failing to see the correlation between the two subjects, Phillip furrowed his brow. "Napoleon was defeated."

"Napoleon didn’t have a sixty-piece orchestra,” P. T. pointed out, not in the slightest bit deterred.

Phillip hoped he was still drunk, and that he had imagined P. T.’s words. "A sixty-piece orchestra?"

P. T. had begun speeding around the room again, collecting necessary items, such as paperwork and folders. He was off on another meeting with Jenny, presumably to show off his new posters, yet again leaving Phillip in charge of the circus, without any proper guidance. "Just get me the cheapest musicians you can,” he demanded.

Trust P. T. to expect the most, and pay the least. "We’ll still have to board them,” Phillip sighed. He may only control ten percent of the circus, but that ten percent included keeping the books, and paying the bills. He knew just how much money everything was going to cost without having to sit down at his calculator and work it all out. All those years he had spent studying business in boarding school was finally beginning to pay off.

"Then get married ones,” P. T. teased, though Phillip suspected he wasn’t actually joking. "They can share a bunk. O’Malley! Fetch Caroline’s piggy bank."

Phillip’s heartstrings tugged. Surely P. T. wasn’t actually going to tap into his eleven year old daughter’s piggy bank to fund _this_? P. T. marched out of the room, his paperwork and folders tucked under one arm, the poster in his fist, propitiously. Following after him, though despising the feeling of being a lapdog, Phillip snatched a loose sheet of paper from one of P. T.’s folders, and began reading.

"Custom sets, couture gowns, fireworks - inside theatres?"

P. T. snapped his fingers and beamed at Phillip. "That’s genius."

"No, P. T., these are the most famous theatres in the country,” Phillip began to explain, straining his voice trying to be heard. "They make you buy the seats in advance just to book them - "

The ringleader just waved him off. "Yes, yes, I took out a loan."

Phillip’s eyes bulged out of his head. "We still have to pay Jenny - "

Interrupting once again, P. T. turned around and pointed at Phillip. "It was a large loan, ok?"

Doing the sums in his head, Phillip instead resorted to speaking to P. T. in his language, using terms he would understand, in the hope that he’d wake up and realise just how ridiculous the whole venture was. "You’re not going to see a penny of profit until your fortieth show - "

"Forty-first, actually,” P. T. interjected, smugly.

Feeling nauseous, Phillip snuck a glance over at the acts, his eyes searching out Anne. She was nowhere to be seen. He wondered how she would feel, how all the acts would feel, when Phillip had to tell them they’d run out of money. That they’d all have to find new jobs and new homes, all because P. T. couldn’t see what he already had right in front of him. "You’re risking everything here - "

"How do you think I built this place?” P. T. burst, his confident facade cracking for a split second. Then, as quickly as it had disappeared, a grin reappeared on his face. "Trust me, we’ll have plenty of profits to go around."

He was beginning to walk away again, until Phillip called his name. His voice was desperate this time, urgency conveying through his every syllable. "Your attention has been divided long enough. Our gate is down, we have more and more protestors every day. Anne’s attack is surely reason enough for you to understand the danger you’ll put them in by leaving."

P. T.’s expression softened, and he placed a hand on Phillip’s shoulder, in a fatherly-like gesture. "You just need to get people to come back,” he told him, calmly. He then removed his hand and proceeded to put his coat and top-hat on. Turning to grin at Phillip, he said; "If you haven’t been to the Barnum Museum lately, then you haven’t been at all."

"They come to see you. Your crazy ideas. Your new acts. The unusual - "

"Then how about you show them a smile?” P. T. joked, missing the importance of what Phillip was saying. "That would be unusual. Keep rehearsing."

And with those pitiful words of advice, he disappeared down the stairs, whistling a tune to himself that Phillip distinctly recognised as the song from Jenny Lind’s performance ten days ago. Blood boiling, watching P. T.’s retreating figure, Phillip screwed up the sheet of paper in his hand in a fit of rage. _If P. T. wanted this tour so damn much, then he should do his own chores_ , Phillip thought to himself.

"Ain’t that a sight for sore eyes!” cried a voice from the other side of the bannister.

Snapping his head around, Phillip spotted Lettie, fanning herself. She was sat on a bench, beside W. D. and Charles. Though Lettie had forgiven him for how he treated Anne, and Charles had even managed a smile here and there, W. D. wasn’t quite as lenient. He glowered at Phillip, jaw clenched.

“He couldn’t even say hello,” Charles added, looking no more surprised than the others. They had begun to expect this type of behaviour from P. T., ever since the disastrous evening at Jenny Lind’s show, when he had turned them all away out of fear they would upset his guests.

Phillip sighed. "Or goodbye,” he told them. “I’m sorry."

Lettie may have forgiven him, but she wasn’t completely merciful. "Oh pull yourself together Carlyle, don’t you got somewhere to be?” she reminded him, like a scolding relative.

Glancing down at his watch, Phillip was struck with a pang of worry as he nodded his head in appreciation towards Lettie, and sped off towards his office. He had ten minutes to get dressed and race down to Broadway if he was to catch Anne before the curtains were raised. He could hardly believe she had said yes. There was a little, or rather large, part of him that had expected Anne to turn down P. T.’s offer out of pride or fear. He would have understood of course; the prospect of walking into an audience filled to the brim with wealthy white folk and hope they were _‘generous’_ enough to let her sit next to one of them was a daunting one.

However, she had agreed nonetheless. Eager to impress her, Phillip hurried to dress into his finery, discarding his work clothes on the floor in a heap. Checking his hair in the mirror before dashing out the door, Phillip could hardly contain the excitement - and nerves - that had bottled themselves up inside of him.

He could see her silhouette through the glass door of the theatre. Anne was stood in front of the vendor’s box, hands clasped together, her eyes glancing down. His heart leapt for her, realising just how anxious she must be. He didn’t hesitate to push open the door, and rush to her side.

“Uh, I’m sorry, I believe it was only supposed to be one."

Her voice was shaky, and Phillip knew she must be expecting the worst; for it all to be some terrible joke, or for the vendor to demand that she leave.

"No, there’s meant to be two,” he quickly explained, in part to the vendor, but mostly to Anne. He watched as her breath hitched in her throat, and she turned slowly to face him, as if she couldn’t quite believe her ears. She was wearing a new dress, an eye-catching green one, and she looked stunning. Not at all like the other women attending the play that night, and he liked that about Anne. She stood out, for all the right reasons. “I wasn’t sure you’d come if I asked."

Anne froze for what felt like an eternity, and Phillip worried that she was going to flee. Instead, she smiled. Phillip felt nothing but relief and immense love for the woman beside him, and offered out his arm. She took it, and for a while, they were allowed to feel like a normal couple. They walked towards the stairs, and before the ascended, Anne looked up, drinking it all in.

"I’ve always wanted to go to the theatre,” she muttered, her eyes wide with wonder. She looked over at Phillip, and smiled again, and together they climbed the stairs.

Phillip wish he had properly cherished the few brief moments he had with Anne, arm in arm, looking back on it, for a second later he heard a voice that was enough to send their whole night crashing down.

"Phillip? Is that you?"

Glancing to the left, Phillip knew immediately it was his father. Dressed in excessive amounts of silk, Howard Carlyle was regarding his son, and his son’s companion, with an aghast expression, nose upturned. Mathilda Carlyle stood beside her husband, face as white as the silk around Howard’s neck.

Phillip felt Anne stiffen beside him. Her arm in his grew taut, and she had begun to breathe heavily. Taking this opportunity to amend his past mistakes, Phillip held Anne closer to him, and even clasped his free hand over hers. “Mother, father,” he began, in a surprisingly steady voice. “This is Anne Wheeler."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see how wary Anne was, her cheeks glowing red. However, he held her gently, not letting her slip from his fingers this time. He wasn’t ashamed of her, not in the slightest, and he intended to prove to her just that. He just hadn’t considered what keeping her there would mean she would have to endure from his parents.

“Phillip, have you no shame?” his father spat. He could barely bring himself to look in Anne’s direction, as though he were physically repulsed by the sight of her. "Associating yourself with that Barnum business is one thing, but parading around with _the help_?"

Before he had a chance to defend her, he felt Anne pull herself free from his touch, and flee towards the door. He called after her three times, and even made an attempt to run after her, but knew that he had to stay to put his parents in their place. Had to make them see how wrong, and ignorant, they were.

“How dare you speak to her like that?” he hissed, his eyes piercing and cold. “Anne is no servant, and even if she was the way you talked to her was disgusting. You don’t get to treat people like that! As if their lives are worth any less than yours. Anne is worth a hundred of you."

“Don’t be rude to your father - “ his mother tried, before she was cut off with another knifelike stare.

“I love that woman with all of my heart,” he told them, his tone harsh and cutting. “I will not allow you to belittle her the way you have belittled so many others. She has more courage, and more kindness, in her little finger than either of you to have put together."

“Love a negro? Don’t be so absurd,” his father scolded, nostrils flaring.

Howard’s offensive terminology was causing Phillip’s temper to fray, threatening to spill. It took him every ounce of self-control he had not to strike his father there and then. He instead decided to turn around, and begin walking out, intending to chase after Anne.

"You forget your place, Phillip,” his mother called after him, her lips tight. She was worried about the odd looks people were beginning to give them, and so was doing her best to remedy the situation, which as usual, was not a lot.

Swivelling around to face them, Phillip shook his head. "My place? Mother, if this is my place, then I want no part in it.” Then, he turned his back on his parent’s for good, and threw open the theatre doors. Peering out into the street, he saw no sign of Anne. His heart hammering away inside his chest, he prayed that she had made it back to the circus safely. He’d never forgive himself if she were to be attacked again.


	23. “Why do you care what they think?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment when to admit what they feel is almost as impossible as rewriting the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was tough, I'm not going to lie. Not only because of the whole emotional side to it, but because it was difficult to imagine how that scene would have gone without the musical number. I hope I did it justice!
> 
> Thank you for all the support, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

_‘The help’_.

Those words had the power to sting Anne, no matter how many times she heard them repeated. Not only was that name demeaning and cruel, it tarnished everything that Anne was; an acrobat, a sister, _a human being_. It stripped all that away from her, leaving her empty. _‘The help’_ insinuated that she was nothing more than a pair of hands, only there to assist those who deemed themselves better than her. _‘The help’_ suggested that she was only capable of running after whites, doing jobs they thought too below their station. _‘The help’_ implied that she wasn’t good enough to be anything else but a servant, or a slave.

The second she heard the nasty remark leave Mr Carlyle’s mouth, she couldn’t bear to listen anymore. She wasn’t going to stand there and subject to insults she didn’t deserve. Anne pulled free from Phillip’s touch, which she had noticed did not waver this time, and fled. She could hear Phillip calling after her as she ran, her name growing louder and louder. As she ran back to the circus, she couldn’t bring herself to turn around. Even though Phillip had remained faithfully by her side, introducing her proudly and holding her close, she didn’t want to know if he was running after her. She didn’t want to get her hopes up.

The second she stepped inside the circus, she spotted her brother sat at a table, playing card games with Constantine, Charles, Lettie, Mswati and Nnemoma. Cursing under her breath, she had forgotten that they’d all be there, backstage. She tried composing herself, to no avail. They all looked up, only to see her with tears were streaming down her cheeks. Both W. D. and Lettie jumped up from their seats, but she merely shook her head. She left them with confound expressions, and pushed open the door to her dressing room.

Behind the closed door, she allowed the tears to flow. She leant on the table, her knees threatening to buckle. Catching a glimpse of herself in her mirror, she hated what she saw looking back; a girl playing dress-up. She clawed at her dress, pulling it free from her body. She shook her hair free, and slipped on her rehearsal clothes, which were hanging on the back of her chair. Using the cloth leftover from the show the previous night, she wiped her make-up off. Looking back in the mirror, she was reminded of who she truly was; a trapeze artist. Not some wealthy socialite who got to visit the theatre, and hold Phillip Carlyle’s hand, but an African-American acrobat. Her place was here in the circus, among the outsiders and castaways, and Phillip’s place was at the theatre, among the politicians and heiresses.

She opened the door, picking up her bandages on the way, and walked over to the sandpit. She sat down on the bench, fully intending to practice some more aerial tricks, when she could hear the circus doors being thrown open. Feeling her chest tighten, she tried to steady herself and focus on the bandages. She heard his footsteps, and her heart constricted.

Anne didn’t want Phillip to see that she had been crying. When he appeared on the edge of the sandpit, breathless from running, she bit back her tears. She barely looked up at him, and began winding her bandages around her wrists, as tightly as she possibly could. She couldn’t look up at him, didn’t want to break down when she was trying so hard to remain composed.

“Anne,” he breathed, her name sounding so soft on his lips. More tears were pricking the back of her eyes. Phillip knelt down in front of her so that she would have to look him. He appeared so broken, with desperation in his piercing blue eyes. There was also a slither of hope too, which Anne wished she hadn’t of noticed. “They’re small-minded people."

He was trying to make things right, to apologise for his parent’s behaviour, but she couldn’t stand to hear it. Didn’t want to be swept up in sweet nothings, when she knew that no matter what they felt for each other, it would never, ever work. People like Mr and Mrs Carlyle would see to that. Reaching out to touch her, she flinched. She didn’t want him to comfort her. Anne knew the second that his fingers brushed her skin, she’d give in.

Phillip was trying to make sense of it all, she could read that in his expression. His brow knitted, he pulled his hand back. “Why do you care what they think?"

Anne shook her head. “It’s not just them,” she muttered, her voice hoarse and barely audible. She was swallowing back a sob. “You never had somebody look at you the way your parents looked at me."

It was all dawning on Phillip, the full extent of Anne’s fears. He looked worried and angry, all at the same time.

“The way everyone’ll look at us,” Anne finished, unable to hold back the tears.

She couldn’t take any more of his pity, as kind as it was. Being so close to him when she knew she shouldn’t was tough. So tough. She finished wrapping her wrists and jumped up. Stepping off the benches, she made her way over to the ropes, completely aware of Phillip’s eyes on her. She hoped that he would leave her be, let her work some of her frustration out on the trapeze, but he wouldn’t give up.

“I’m in love with you, Anne,” he called after her.

She could hear the desperation in his voice, and knew he was genuine. Telling Anne he loved her was his last attempt to make things work. She froze where she was, but couldn’t bring herself to turn around. Instead, she began unwinding the ropes.

“I haven’t hidden it very well,” Phillip continued, walking over to her. “And I know that you love me too, whether you want to admit it or not."

The truth was, she couldn’t admit it. If she did, she’d only be fooling them both that a relationship was possible. She continues to keep her back to him, whilst he grows closer and closer, until he’s right by her side. Anne backs away, scared of being too close to him whilst he talks of love, but he merely follows her onto the sandpit.

“Anne, I can see that you’re afraid of what people will say about us being together, but what I feel for you is stronger than all of that. If we want it badly enough, nothing could keep us apart. The moment I met you, I knew you were the only girl I was ever going to love."

The aching in her heart was getting more and more painful. She tried to walk away, tried to leave, but Phillip reached out and took ahold of her wrist, and gently pulled her back. They were inches apart now, and Anne’s breathing had become shallow, his hands around her waist. This was the closest they’d ever been to one another. Phillip’s gaze wasn’t wavering from her eyes, as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb grazing her cheek. She shivered, and couldn’t prevent the smile from appearing on her face. It was small, but it was there, and from the way Phillip’s eyes lit up, she knew he had seen it.

Phillip stepped a little closer to her, so that their faces were millimetres apart. As Phillip leaned forward, as if to kiss her, Anne tugged on the rope wrapped around her wrist, and was sent soaring upwards. As she went up with the rope, she sought out her hoop, and perched herself on the metal apparatus. She could see Phillip, gazing up at her in awe, as she descended back down to the ground.

“You seem to think that if we just admit how we feel, everything is gonna be alright, that it’s all gonna be that easy,” she began, as her feet touched the ground. She performed a little series of tricks as she spoke, knowing that Phillip was watching her every move, wide-eyed. “Even if I did want you, people are gonna find a way to stop us from ever being together. It’s different in here, where we’ll be accepted. The second we step foot outside, they’re all gonna be staring and pointing, and trying to pull us apart."

She felt her hoop raise, and hanging upside down she saw Phillip getting smaller and smaller on the ground. He blinked, and she disappeared. She could see him searching for her in the rafters, frantically. Walking across the bannister, she jumped off and onto the rope dangling from the ceiling. Swinging past him, he flinched, the speed in which she flew past pushing him back. She continued swinging, relishing in the feeling of soaring through the air, when Phillip stood in front of her, and caught her in his arms. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and the pair were knocked to the ground. They rolled in the sand, until they stopped, Anne perched on top of Phillip.

Their breathing was heavy, and she felt Phillip’s hands rest on her thighs. Goosebumps all up her arms, she reached down and placed a gentle hand to his face. He was gazing up at her as if she were the most wondrous thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

“I’m not the one for you, Phillip,” she told him, softly. “It ain't up to us to decide who we’re meant to be with. Not when the whole world gets a say."

Before Phillip could argue with her, she tugged on the rope, and she was sent flying upwards again. With quick reactions, he pulled the rope taut, hoping to bring her back down by his side. However, Anne was even faster, and performed a trick she had recently learnt that involved tying the rope around her waist - whilst still in the air - and free falling, spiralling back to the ground. Phillip caught her, his strong arms holding her as though she were nothing more than a sack of flour. Her feet touching the floor, he pulled her close, so that her back was resting against his chest.

“How can we be together, when everything is against us?"

Phillip then took Anne by surprise. He’d clearly been watching her intently over the last few shows, as he spun her in his arms and with one forceful tug of the rope sent them soaring upwards. His left arm was snaked around her waist, holding her tight, whilst hers were around his torso. She could feel his muscles, tight underneath his shirt, and trusted immediately that he would never let her fall. Their legs were intertwined too.

Her complete faith in him to support her in the air like that was shocking. She’d only ever trusted her brother, nobody else except perhaps her mama and daddy, on both the ground and in the sky. To feel so safe, and secure, in Phillip’s arms was unexpected, and caused a grin to spread across her features. His blue eyes, the colour of the ocean, were staring into hers, and she never wanted to let go. If there was a way to remain frozen in this memory forever, she’d find a way to make it possible.

“All I want is you,” Phillip said, in a tender tone. “To spend the rest of my life with you, Anne. To wake up next to you, to hold you close, to kiss you whenever I want. Imagine it, me and you growing old together, watching our children grow up. I can make you happy."

Anne closed her eyes, and slipped backwards. Knowing he would, Phillip caught her the second she dropped, and she was lowered to the ground. She pulled Phillip after her, and wrapped a hand around his neck, pressing their foreheads together. “That sounds . . . nice,” she replied, with a smile. She then stepped backwards, pulling one of the ropes with her. “It’s impossible, though."

Shaking his head, Phillip disagreed. “It’s not,” he tried.

“It’s illegal,” Anne muttered. He was walking towards her again, determination written all over his face.

“To be together isn’t,” he assured her. “To be in love isn’t."

He was but an inch away from her now, and she could feel her barriers tumbling down. Afraid of what would happen if Phillip stepped any closer, she ran around him, her wrist wrapped up in the rope, the momentum lifting her off the ground. She spun around him, watching as his eyes followed her around the room.

“Can we really ignore the rules?” she called down to him, feeling emboldened just by flying through the air. She wished she had that sort of confidence when her two feet were planted on the ground. “Just so you can be mine, and I can be yours? Because, I don’t think I’ll ever find anybody like you."

“Say the words, Anne, and we can do anything,” he answered, without missing a beat. “As long as we’re together."

He didn’t hesitate in climbing the stands, with complete ease, and reaching her level. As she soared past him, he threw himself off the bannister, as she had done many times, and latched onto her. One hand enclosed hers around the rope, and his other found it’s place on the small of her back. She placed her spare arm around his shoulders, and wrapped her leg around his.

As the swinging began to slow, and they neared the ground, Anne could feel her courage and her fearlessness slipping away. Phillip held her so close to his chest, their foreheads touching. She didn’t want to pull away just yet, interlocking her fingers with his.

“I love you too,” she whispered, feeling her heart hammering away inside her chest. She saw Phillip’s eyes brighten, and a grin tug at his lips, and felt guilty knowing she was going to have to let him down. “I think I have for a long time now, just been too scared of my own feelings to admit them."

She then gasped, not wanting to say what she knew she had to say. “But I can’t have you,” she told him. She saw his eyebrows furrow, his lips part, and his head jerk backwards. Anne wanted nothing more than to reach out and to stroke his cheek, but knew it would only make matters worse. “We’re bound to break."

With those final words, she hung her head, and gently pulled Phillip’s hand from off her waist. Unable to stand there any longer, she walked away from Phillip, heading up the stairs to her room. She shut the door behind her, and broke down into tears.


	24. “You could come for dinner tonight?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Phillip and Anne's confessions to one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've considered what other stories I'd like to write - whilst still continuing this one! - and I quite like the idea of writing a Moulin Rouge inspired one, with a happy ending of course. The plot and the characters fit so well with The Greatest Showman, that I can't help but want to want to write it!
> 
> I also intend to write a 'what-happens-next' after this story, so don't worry about that!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

* * *

Yet again, Anne spent another day trying, and failing, to avoid Phillip.

When she awoke that morning, she saw W. D. already up, tying his shoelaces. As Anne sat up, he stopped what he was doing, and gave her a sympathetic smile. She ran her hand through her locks, which were falling about her face, and tried her best to return the expression, to no avail. She felt as though she had left her heart in the sandpit, with Phillip. She had spent the whole night in a state of fitful sleep, dreaming on and off about Phillip’s hands on her waist.

W. D. knew his little sister better than anyone. To probe her about last night would only upset her further. Appreciating his silence, she nodded her head at him. He stood up and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, he kissed her forehead.

“I’ll be downstairs with the others,” he told her, in an amiable voice. “I can make an excuse for you, if you’d like? Say your ribs are sore or something?"

Shaking her head, Anne patted his hand. “I’ll be alright,” she replied.

Reluctantly, he then left the room, allowing Anne to dress for the day. She sighed as she stood up, and glanced at her rehearsal clothes, thrown in a heap on the floor. She’d been in too much of a state last night to tidy them away properly. Picking them up, she considered putting them on. Practicing some more trick on the trapeze, high up in the air, would give her a reason to evade Phillip. Without hesitation, she shrugged off her nightgown, and slipped on the shorts and top.

Apprehensively, she peeked her head out of the door. She couldn’t see anybody, so stepped out. She descended the stairs, plastering a smile on her face as people called her name, and waved her way. Anne didn’t stop and chat with any of the other acts, and instead made her way towards the sandpit, thinking she’d be alone there.

Instead what she saw was the two Barnum girls, giggling and laughing, as Phillip gave them each piggy backs. The sight made her feel both warm, and grief-stricken at the same time. Warm because the way Phillip behaved around them, putting smiles on their faces, was the absolute sweetest. Grief-stricken because they could never have that. Before Anne could back away silently, Helen spotted her, and cried her name. Running over to the acrobat, she launched herself into her arms. Reflexes as good as ever, she lifted the girl up, propping her up onto her hip. A pain shot through her ribs, though she tried not to let it show. Phillip, however, noticed. He ran over, prising Helen off of Anne, and span her around.

“Anne’s just woken up, silly,” he told her, when she asked why she couldn’t play with Anne.

“Maybe later, ok honey?” Anne quickly suggested, not wanting to disappoint.

Helen beamed, and nodded enthusiastically. Setting her down, Phillip gestured for her to continue having fun with her sister, who was now sat with Lettie,  
combing her beard. As the little girl ran off, Anne found she couldn’t meet Phillip’s eyes. Not after what she told him last night.

“Thank you, for that,” she muttered, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “I don’t want them knowing what . . . what happened, to me."

Trying his luck, Phillip reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, but she flinched. If he touched her like that, she feared she’d melt into his fingertips, as she did previously. Afraid that she’d lose herself again.

“You shouldn’t do that,” she explained, uncomfortably.

Frowning, Phillip took a step away from her, and she suddenly felt very cold. “Do what? Be nice?”

Struggling to find the words, Anne could sense a blush creeping up her cheeks. “Touch me like that, Phillip,” she replied, in a quiet voice. “It ain’t a good idea."

“Oh, I forgot,” he huffed, and suddenly she could smell the liquor on his breath. She felt guilty. It was her fault he’d turned to drink again. He must have been drinking all night for it to still linger on his lips like that. “You're afraid of being seen with me."

“I’m afraid of _you_ being seen with _me_!” she hissed.

Before either one could say anything else, Anne heard her brother call her name across the circus. Snapping her head around, she saw him stood by the doors, with none other than Jacob beside him. He grinned when he saw Anne, and was holding another beautiful bouquet of flowers. Anne’s stomach lurched as she glanced between Phillip and Jacob. Phillip’s face had gone white, and he merely sighed and walked away.

Anne jogged over to W. D. and Jacob, the pair of them happy to see her. Jacob’s eyes trailed over her, never having seen her in her rehearsal clothes before. Admittedly, for someone not used to the circus, it could be a lot of skin on show. She could tell by the faint blush on his cheeks that it was a rare sight for him.

Her brother gave her a wink, before running off to offer a hand to Queenie, who was dragging a podium by herself, leaving the pair alone. Jacob leant over to plant a kiss on her cheek, and Anne could just sense Phillip watching them from his office. He held out the flowers to her, which she took, anxiously. They were posies again, this time yellow like the sun.

“They’re lovely,” she told him, not sure of what else to say. She hadn’t been expecting him to visit.

“Well, I had to have an excuse to come and see you so soon, and mother told me flowers were the perfect cover,” he chuckled, taking a step closer to her. “You look beautiful, by the way."

Nervously tucking her hair behind her ear, she looked down at the posies, pretending to smell them.

“When can I see you again?” he asked, in a low voice. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you - "

“I can’t,” she interjected, feeling overwhelmed. Jacob’s brow furrowed, and he appeared to be rendered bewildered. “I can’t see you anymore. You’re nice, and you’re charming, and you’ll make a girl very happy someday, it just . . . won’t be me."

“Was it something I said?” he muttered, and yet again Anne was left feeling guilty for upsetting somebody else.

She shook her head. “No, you’ve done nothing wrong. I’m . . . I’m in love with somebody else, that’s all."

Suddenly, the cloud of confusion disappeared from Jacob’s eyes, and he smiled, though it was small and faint. “I understand,” he told her, taking her by surprise. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. He’s a very lucky man."

With that, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. He said goodbye, and left Anne stood holding the flowers, regretting ever leaving the confines of her bed that morning. Sighing, she looked over to where Lettie was sat, the girls on her lap, bouncing up and down on her knees. Catching her eye, Lettie could see immediately the hurt and guilt in her expression. Anne walked over to the three of them, and knelt down so that she was level with Helen and Caroline.

“Those flowers are pretty,” Helen said, her wide eyes roaming over the bouquet.

Caroline smirked. “Did Phillip give them to you?"

A lump formed in her throat, and Anne shook her head. “They’re for you two,” she fibbed, not sure what else to do with them. “For being such good trapeze students. I reckon another few lessons, and you’ll both be experts. Even better than me!"

The two Barnum girls’ faces lit up, and they took the flowers from Anne’s hands, thank you after thank you tumbling out of their mouths. Behind them, Charity approached, her eyes a little puffy. She plastered on a smile when her daughters looked her way, but Anne knew the face of somebody who was trying desperately to keep it together; it was the same face she saw when she looked in the mirror.

Anne stood to her feet, and gave the woman a kind smile. She had almost forgotten that P. T. had left that morning for his two month tour across America, with the undeniably enchanting Jenny Lind. His presence around the circus had been so scarce lately, that she doubted she would had even noticed he’d left for another few days, if she hadn’t of seen Charity.

It was Charity that Anne felt sorry for. Yes, P. T. had abandoned them all at the circus, for the foreseeable future, but at least he’d left Phillip in charge, as unqualified and unprepared as he was. He’d left nobody at home to take care of his wife and children. They were the ones that needed him the most. Having spent most of her life without her own daddy, there to tuck her in at night, and sing her to sleep, she knew all to well the sting of missing a parent.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Charity?” Anne inquired, sincerely. She wanted to help, in anyway she could.

Charity reached out and placed a hand on Anne’s arm, and squeezed reassuringly. “You could come for dinner tonight?"

* * *

When Phillip turned and saw Jacob stood by the door, his eyes bright and glued to Anne, he fought against the burning desire to demand he leave immediately, whether that meant he had to use brute force or not. Instead, he sighed and headed towards his office. His headache was paining him, and he wasn’t sure he could stomach watching another man fawn over the girl he loved, so decided that another drink was the only solution. Gritting his teeth, he threw open the door to his office, and snatched the bottle of whiskey from the table, as if it was calling to him.

It was felt as though he were watching a play. A tragedy, and that the tragedy was him. As Jacob kissed Anne’s cheek, Phillip felt like launching the bottle across the room. Twice. Twice had this man been able to kiss her, whereas Phillip was lucky if she would even look at him without tearing up. He was taller than Anne, something rare, and far too close to her for Phillip's comfort. Anne, however, didn’t appear to mind. A blush was staining her cheeks, as she held the posies to her nose.

Angry and hurt, he backed away from the window, and fell back into his chair. Banging his clenched fist against the table in a fit of rage, he was overcome with jealousy. He didn’t understand Anne, not in the slightest. Less than twelve hours ago she had been in his arms, her body flush against his, their hearts beating as one. He’d told her he loved her, and she had said it back. The second those fateful words had left her lips, Phillip thought that he could never be happier. She loved him. That was all he had wanted to hear, the moment he had laid eyes on her. However, in the next second she had told him that they could never be together. Said that they were _‘bound to break’_.

What did that mean? _‘Bound to break’_. Their love was all that mattered, not the outside world. He had stood up for her against his own parents, hadn’t he? Surely he had proved that he would defend her against anything and everyone. Yet, Anne was still afraid. She had gathered up the confidence to tell him she was in love with him, but couldn’t pluck up enough courage to try and be with him.

Taking another swig of whiskey, Phillip slammed the bottle down, though kept his grip tight. No, he was being too harsh on her. She had good cause to be afraid, her broken ribs were living proof of that. There was also what she had said to him, before Jacob appeared. _'I’m afraid of you being seen with me!’_ It wasn’t her happiness she was trying to save; it was his.

As good as her intentions were, she’d only made the pain worse. Knowing she loved him too, and yet being unable to hold her, to kiss her, to call her his, was agonising.

Blood roared in his ears as he thought about how Jacob was down there now, with her. He was allowed to kiss her. Anne was real in his arms. She got to be with him in all the ways she couldn’t with Phillip. It was wrong of him to will Jacob away, and he felt awful for even considering it, because Jacob made Anne happy when she couldn’t be happy with him. If he was perhaps sober he’d let Anne be, respect her wishes, but he wasn’t. He was drunk, and bitter, and the alcohol was only making matters worse. Just like he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Anne and Jacob, he couldn’t bring himself to let go of the bottle.

How pathetic.

He remembered what she had said to him the night he had caught her kissing Jacob; _‘I imagined it was you’_. Was that what she was doing with Jacob, downstairs? Pretending it was him? Trying to fulfil what she could have with him? It was a sad possibility.

* * *

The minute her cutlery had touched her plate, her belly full, Anne had been whisked away by Helen and Caroline, who demanded that she teach them how to perform a handstand. Charity sat watching, chuckling, on the sofa, her legs folded underneath her. The amount of times Anne had been to the Barnum’s for dinner, the place had started to become as familiar as the circus. It would never feel like home; it was too vast, and too reminiscent of other houses that held memories too painful to think about. The people inside however, made it welcoming, and warm.

When it came to the girls’ bedtime, they begged that Anne be the one to tuck them in. Beaming, Anne had agreed immediately, and followed them up the stairs. Their room was huge, and perhaps four times the size of her own room which she shared with her brother. It was brimming with dolls, and rocking horses, and building blocks. Anne couldn’t bring herself to despise any of it, however, remembering where the girls had grown up before moving to the mansion.

Holding out a book for Anne to read to them, Caroline sat up in her bed, eager. Anne took the book from her hands, and placed it back on the bedside cabinet, feeling a little embarrassed about telling them of her inability to read. Instead, she thought back of ways she would go to sleep as a young girl, in New Orleans.

“How about I sing a song instead?” she asked them, and they nodded, grinning. Taking a seat on the edge of Helen’s bed, ensuring that she could see Caroline too, Anne recalled her favourite lullaby. “It’s called _Ehuhwe Nyarara Mwana_ , and it's what my mama would sing to me when I was a little girl. It’s in her native language, and I haven’t heard in years, so forgive me if I’m rusty."

Anne cleared her throat, and began.

_“Ehuwe nyarara mwana,_  
_Mwana wenyo arira vakoma,_  
_Achirira guru matendera,_  
_Matendera kwachidya mupunga,_  
_Chidya mupunga magaka aora,_  
_Aorera mhiri kwaMungezi,_  
_KwaMungezi kunebanga jena,_  
_Banga jena rekucheka nyama,_  
_Nyama kwayo ndeye paruware,_  
_Yepasi inozara mawhu,_  
_Shanga yangu yawa, hu,_  
_Yagonhongwa nani, hu_  
_Namushaya dende,_  
_Agoisepi,_  
_Kurwizi rukuru,_  
_Runodyiwa shabvu nenhengetenge,_  
_Chamupidiori maridza ngoma huku inemongo,_  
_Chimudodo,_  
_Kwiyogoko."_

By the time she had finished, both girls were sound asleep. Anne smiled, and pulled their blankets up to cover their arms, and turned to leave, when she saw Charity stood in the doorway. Her face was a picture of astonishment. They walked through the hallway in silence, and only was it until they reached the bottom step did Charity say anything.

“That was beautiful, Anne,” she gasped, as though she’d been holding her breath.

Blushing, Anne took a seat on the sofa next to Charity. “It was always my favourite when I was little."

“What language was it?"

“Zimbabwean,” Anne answered, nodding. “It’s where my mama and daddy were originally from."

“Before . . . "

Charity was hesitant to finish her sentence, but Anne knew what she was going to say. “Before they were kidnapped by smugglers and brought to Louisiana? Yes, they were born in Mtilikwe, I think. A small village near the Runde river.” Her tone was calm, and collected, and not in the slightest berating. Considering the weight of Anne’s words, Charity took her time to reply.

“Have you not heard from your mother in all these years?” she asked, leaning forward. The concern on her face reminded Anne of the same consideration Lettie would show her. It warmed Anne, knowing that Charity cared for her the same as the others, class put aside.

Shaking her head, Anne ran a hand through her locks. “Not since I was eight,” she replied, with a sad smile. “Mama can’t read or write, like me, so letters are no use."

Neither ladies were one for alcohol; Charity had the occasional sherry now and then, but Anne had never had a drop in her life, and after seeing what it did to men like Phillip, she’d never wanted one. Instead, Charity treated them to a pot of tea, a rather fanciful blend from north Burma. She sat the teapot in front of them, and proceeded to pour them both a cup. Anne took the mug from her, gratefully. She’d only had sips before, never a full cup. It was a treat, to say the least, to be sat drinking tea in a mansion in Westchester County.

“You know, I’ve never been I haven’t spent more than a few hours away from P. T. since we were children,” Charity suddenly said, a sad look in her eye. “When I was eighteen and I left boarding school, P. T. made sure that we saw each other everyday, until I agreed to marry him. Men are persistent at the best of times, but he was especially so."

Chuckling, Anne blew on her tea, the steam smelling of lemon and ginger.

“Enough of me and my woes, what about you?” Charity inquired, beaming. “I want to hear everything about your outing with Phillip yesterday. When P. T. told me of Phillip’s plan to surprise you, I can’t say I was shocked. That boy adores a grand gesture."

Tensing, Anne glanced away. She had hoped to avoid that topic of conversation. “It was . . . unexpected,” she finally answered, in a quiet voice. Charity’s beam slipped, and was replaced with a frown. “We bumped into his parents. They called me . . . _‘the help’_ , and I couldn’t bear it. I fled, and Phillip followed. He told me that he loved me."

Charity’s jaw dropped. Leaning forward in her chair, she was keen to hear the rest.

“I told him that I loved him too,” Anne admitted, feeling as though a weight had been lifted. She hadn’t been able to think much on what she had said to Phillip, and saying it out loud suddenly made it all feel awfully real. A tear rolled down her cheek.

“Good heavens,” Charity gasped. She placed a hand over Anne’s, and squeezed consolingly. “What did you say next?"

“I explained that it was impossible, us being together."

Setting down her cup, Charity gave Anne a sympathetic smile. “That’s what my parents said about me and P. T.,” she said, hoping that it would shed some light on the issue. “But look at us now, happily married with two children."

Wiping away her tear, Anne swallowed back another sob. “Difference is it’s not illegal for you two,” she muttered, somewhat bitterly. “If we were to have children, they’d never be allowed to go school, let alone learn ballet. Phillip would never inherit his family’s money if he were to be seen with the likes of me, and I couldn’t do that to him. I love him, and I can’t let him waste his life on me."

As the words left her lips, Anne suddenly felt the weight of their meaning, and their horrid truth. She had been a fool to open her heart to Phillip, when she knew what the only possible outcome could be; a broken heart, racked with guilt, and a distraught Phillip to deal with. Tears were flowing more freely now.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Charity sighed. “I can’t imagine how you must be feeling, I really can’t. But you shouldn’t sacrifice your happiness for ifs and buts. You and Phillip don’t have to get married, so you’d be breaking no laws. All of us at the circus would pass no judgement, and if it’s money you need - or anything else at all - P. T. and I will be more than happy to help the pair of you.”

Anne grinned, appreciatively, through her tears. She didn’t want to put a damper on Charity’s kindness, and said nothing further, as it was no use arguing, however Anne knew better than most the cruelty of mankind.


	25. “Is he bothering you, Anne?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just over a month after P. T. left, and Phillip is struggling to keep on top of everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one day? I'm so proud. Honestly, I am the biggest procrastinator, so to managing to stay regular with the updates is a big challenge for me. Just goes to show how much I love this story!
> 
> This one is a bit shorter, but I hope you don't mind because the last one was over three thousands words long (!) and the next one is going to be a big one too.
> 
> Thank you for all the support, it really helps to motivate me!
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

Phillip had almost deteriorated.

Everyone could see how he was struggling. P. T. had been gone for over a month, and some attributed his decline to stress. Far too much money was leaving the circus account, with barely any profit being returned back in. The protestors were growing with each show, a society called the ‘League of Decency’ attracting more and more members each day. It was hard to tell who genuinely wanted to come and watch the circus, and who were only there to throw vegetables and insults at the acts.

Yet, Phillip still donned that ruby red ringleader’s outfit, and four times a week would stand on stage and plaster a grin on his face. Those he didn’t know him would think nothing was wrong, and even those who did brushed it off as nothing more than the pressure becoming all to much.

Anne knew exactly what was wrong, however. Phillip could tell by the piteous looks she would give him when she thought he couldn’t see. She could hear his voice faltering when he introduced her act, smell the booze on his breath after every show, see the light dim in his eyes when he saw her. He didn’t try to hide those things from her, and part of him hated himself for it. It was cruel, letting her hurt like that. When he was sober, he wanted nothing more than to run to her and hold her close to his chest, and apologise for everything. However the other part of him, when he was drunk, wanted her to hurt just as much as him.

She wouldn’t talk to him, wouldn’t let him in. He offered to help zip up her costume up one evening, and she flinched at his touch. It made his stomach drop, and he felt nauseous. Could she really not stand to be near him that much?

Every waking moment he was thinking about her. Wondering if she was alright, if she was getting enough sleep, if she was eating properly, if the protestors hadn’t become too overwhelming, if her hoop was secured properly. He was severely unhappy, and thinking about Anne wasn’t helping, but he didn’t know how to switch off the part of his brain that was consumed by her. He’d even taken to dreaming about her. Often they would just be replays of their conversations, in particular the one in the sandpit, where she had told him she loved him. Other times they would be nightmares so vivid that would drag him out of slumber. These would include visions of her falling from her hoop, or finding her beaten and bloody body on the circus doorstep. Once or twice Phillip had been so shaken by his dreams, that he would stay awake, eyes fixated on her door until he saw her walk out in the morning, just to make sure it wasn’t real.

Bad dreams had always plagued Phillip, ever since he was a child. When he was a toddler, they’d be about monsters under the bed, and ghouls in the closets. He’d scream and scream out until his mother and father heard him, and demand that they check for supernatural beings in every crevice. Of course, they’d dismiss his fears, and call him ‘silly’. Then, in 1841, when he was sent away to boarding school at age five, he had to suppress the nightmares, out of dread that he’d be teased for them.

As he grew older, and more mature, the nightmares lessened. He had discovered drink to drown them out, and occasionally company to warm his bed. Now, all of a sudden they’d come back, and the alcohol wasn’t helping in the slightest, and the only company he yearned for couldn’t look him in the eyes.

One evening, after he had managed to finish every bottle of whiskey he possessed, and even made a dent in P. T.’s own drinks cabinet, Phillip found himself watching Anne out of his office window. She was stretching after a vigorous training session, in which she had successfully completed a new trick on the ropes. Sat in the sand, her heavenly locks wild all about her face, stuck to her neck with sweat, she reached her fingertips to her toes. It was fascinating to watch. Clambering to her feet, she dusted the sand from her bare legs and arms. Phillip remembered what her skin had felt like, soft and electric, and shivered at the memory.

Anne glanced around, and noticed that she was all alone. Everyone else was either participating in the weekly card games with Lettie, Constantine, Tom and the others, or sound asleep. Taking this chance, she crossed the sandpit to where a discarded newspaper was lying on one of the benches. She picked it up, and held it out. Her eyes scanned over the first page, face scrunched up in deep concentration, and Phillip could see her lips forming to sound out the words. His heart was beating so hard he could hear it, as he willed her on. You can do it, he thought to himself, hoping she could somehow hear him.

Frustration took over. Anne threw the newspaper across the room, papers scattering everywhere. Her fists were clenched by her side, as a tear fell down her cheek. Wiping it away with the back of her hand, she refused to allow herself to break down. Instead she stormed up the stairs, and disappeared inside her room. Phillip was left feeling responsible for her outburst. They hadn’t had a reading lesson since before the disaster at the theatre, the first time when they had watched Jenny Lind’s first American performance.

His fingers were itching for a bottle. After triple searching the office, Phillip didn’t hesitate in heading towards the bar around the corner. The barman had come to expect his presence, no longer bothering to ask questions or make small talk, instead having a glass of whiskey waiting for him. The sheer humiliation of this fact was enough to make Phillip want to down the drink in one.

* * *

It wasn’t until early the next morning, very early, that Phillip stumbled home. He’d stopped going to his apartment altogether now, despite all the repairs having been long finished. He slept at his desk, or in his cramped cot in the corner of the office.

Practically falling through the doors of the circus, Phillip was too inebriated to realise quite how much noise he was making. He’d lost his hat in a bet with an Irish dockworker to see who could drink the most tequila shots in thirty seconds. Phillip had managed a hefty twelve, but the Irishman had swept the floor with him, putting away sixteen.

Phillip feared that he was hallucinating when he staggered past the lion cage, and saw a figure sat among them. Peering in, he spotted Anne, nuzzling the largest lion. Tapping on the bars, he made her jump.

“What are you _*hiccup*_ doing in there?” he asked, slurring his words.

He saw Anne take a deep breath before replying. “I couldn’t sleep.” Her voice was monotone, and quiet.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he admitted, his tongue a little looser than usual. "You should have _*hiccup*_ come to the bar _*hiccup*_ with me."

Anne scowled at Phillip, and rolled her eyes. “I don’t drink, Phillip,” she sighed. “And neither should you."

Smiling sadly, he shrugged. “Easier said than _*hiccup*_ done."

Stroking the lion’s mane, Anne stepped out of the pen, sure to lock it up behind her. Turning around, she was taken aback by how close Phillip was to her. Perhaps if he was sober he would have known when he wasn’t wanted or needed, and left her in peace. However, he was way past sober. He was almost certain he was seeing double, and his vision was blurry, except for Anne’s face. She was as clear as ever, illuminated by the fading candlelight. Her eyes were such a rich shade of brown that they were almost black, and her skin was glowing.

“I have something _*hiccup*_ for you,” he heard himself saying, and disappeared to run up the stairs to his office, only tripping once. Pulling open the top drawer of his desk, he found a neatly wrapped gift that he had stashed away for over a month now. Bounding back down, he was relieved to see Anne still waiting, her arms crossed. He held out the present to her, and she took it, gingerly. Turning it over in her hands, she didn’t seem to quite know what it was for. “It’s a birthday _*hiccup*_ gift."

“Like the theatre tickets?"

Phillip chuckled, despite Anne’s steely expression. “Hopefully this one _*hiccup*_ won’t be as calamitous."

She shook her head, and pushed the gift back into his hands. “I can’t accept it."

In that moment, all his irritation and frustration bubbled over, and he threw his hands up. “I wish _*hiccup*_ everything was different,” he explained, oblivious to the fact it was gone three in the morning. “I wish you’d believe me _*hiccup*_ when I tell you I don’t care what people will _*hiccup*_ say about us. I don’t want a title, or invitations, or _*hiccup*_ anything from high society. All I want is you! I intend to _*hiccup*_ tell my parents that I don’t want _*hiccup*_ another penny from them."

Anne held her hand to her forehead, and closed her eyes. “Stop being so stupid,” she told him, sounding exasperated. “You shouldn’t say these things, shouldn’t make these promises, not in this state. You’ll only regret it in the morning."

“I’ll regret _*hiccup*_ nothing!"

“I can’t ask you to throw away your life for me, Phillip!” Anne exclaimed, and he could hear that she was on the verge of tears. “You say you won’t regret it, but what about in a month from now? A year? It ain’t fair of me to expect you to stand by as people point and stare, and your family disown you."

Phillip took a step forward, and said in a gentle voice; “I don’t want a life without you in it."

Suddenly, Constantine and Mswati appeared, dressed in their nightwear. Clearly Phillip and Anne’s discussion had awoken them, and they’d gotten up to investigate. Taking a hold of Phillip, their strength overpowered his intoxicated state, gripping his shoulders. “Is he bothering you, Anne?” Mswati asked, his tone steeped in concern.

Anne’s eyes caught Phillip’s, and they softened. “No, he just needs a lie down,” she sighed, and allowed them to half-drag, half-carry him back up to his office. They laid him down on his cot, and instructed that he try and get some sleep, as they have a performance later that day.

In truth, he didn’t get much sleep, but did manage to sober up. He was still clutching the unopened gift as the sun rose.


	26. “They never give up, do they?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fight leads to disaster, and everyone's lives are changed forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments!
> 
> Please enjoy!

* * *

The show that evening was especially daunting. As Phillip stepped on stage to introduce the show, and the acts began their opening number, the protestors emerged. They’d been seated in the first few rows, and had brought with them an assortment of rotting vegetables to throw. When they’d discarded all that they could, they took to crying out insulting names and racial slurs at the acts in front of them.

Unfortunately, that included Anne. She was already nervous about performing a trick where she lets go of the trapeze bar, executes a double front flip in the air, and falls freely until she was caught by Constantine, Mswati, Illya and her brother on the ground. She’d only done it successfully once before. Of course, there was the added pressure of Phillip’s eyes glued to her throughout her act, and the horrible names being shouted and spat at her.

And yet, despite everything that was stacked up against her, she achieved the trick without putting a single foot wrong. It was graceful, and it was breathtaking. Whilst there was a small smattering of applause amongst the crowd, it was mostly drowned out by the protestors, demanding she 'go back to her own country', and other crude statements that made her feel sick. As always, Phillip was there. He rushed to her side, and held her hand up as she bowed her head. His touch only made her feel worse.

After the show, all she wanted to do was pull off her stupid wig and suffocating costume. Stepping out of the sandpit, all she could hear was insult after insult being hurled her way, and the other acts, in particular those of colour. When one man with a vicious grin traipsed forward, and threatened do something unspeakable to Anne, she felt herself being held back by Grace, Patsey and Queenie. They took her to her dressing room, the one she shared with W. D., and closed the door tightly shut behind them.

“They never give up, do they?” Patsey sighed. On nights like this, when the protestors were particular nasty, the coloured acts had taken to hiding themselves away, and sticking together. Especially after the frightful ordeal Anne endured, Phillip made sure that she was never to be left alone, and so Patsey and Queenie - coloured acts themselves - and Grace, an Irish knife-thrower, had taken it upon themselves to act as her protectors, when W. D. was indisposed.

Queenie’s golden eyes glittered. “Neither will we,” she exclaimed, a certain fervour in her stance that Anne admired. “That’s what W. D. always says."

Anne smirked, wiping away her make-up with the cloth on her dressing table. “You’re rather taken with my brother, aren’t you?” she asked, grinning. When Queenie blushed, Anne placed a hand on her arm. “Oh, I don’t mind. I can tell he likes you too. It’s time he found himself someone."

“Seeing as you’ve found Phillip?” Grace teased, and Anne suddenly felt flushed herself, and sightly nauseous. Their conversation in the early hours of that morning came to mind, of how she pushed him away again.

She shook her head, and peeled off her wig, her curls tumbling about her face. “I don’t know what you mean."

All three women did not appear convinced. “Anne, we all see the way you look at each other,” Patsey said, in a gentle voice. “The way he’ll run to your defence, and how you shiver at his touch. You both love each other, and for whatever reason you’re not letting yourselves be happy. You’re working too much, and he’s drinking too much. It ain’t healthy."

“What you both don’t understand is that by keeping yourselves apart you’re only making things worse,” Grace added, her poetic, Irish lilt made all the more sweeter by her soothing tone.

Anne realised with a jolt that she was right. Like it or not, she was in love with Phillip, and that meant she was already at risk of being hurt, whether she was with him or not. He was hurting too, he’d made that very clear. She was so caught up worrying that he’d be made a victim if they pursued one another, that she’d hadn’t seen that she was the one injuring him worst of all.

Suddenly, they heard a shout. They all snap their heads to look at the door, neither one daring to open it. Spurred on by a moment of courage, Grace stepped forward and opened the door, warily. She peered out, and a second later she emerged, wide-eyed. “There’s a fight outside!” she hissed. “Between the protestors and the circus!"

Anne felt three pairs of eyes fall upon her, and the dull ache of her healing ribs suddenly became more prominent.

“We should go upstairs,” Queenie muttered, as calmly as she could muster. “Now."

Slipping away past those brawling outside, the four women climbed the stairs to the rooms, and all hid inside Anne’s room, as it was the closest. Shutting the door as soundlessly behind them as they could, they stood in the small space, clutching their arms to their chests. They waited, not sure what for. A sign, perhaps, that it was safe to come out. It was an odd position to be in; they wanted to help their friends in any way they could, but they’d promised Phillip to look after Anne, and there was no way either one of the women was going to allow Anne to join in the riot. Instead, they paced, and they trembled, and they worried.

Anne couldn’t shake something from her mind. As they had scurried up the stairs, she had snuck a glance down, and spotted Phillip taking a hit for W. D., whilst W. D. fought off Philip’s attacker. The image of her brother and Phillip fighting side-by-side was a difficult one to stomach, and unexpected too. She didn’t want either one to be in harm’s way.

They felt as though they had been waiting an eternity. Anne was certain that she had paced and paced so many times, that the floorboards had eroded beneath her feet. Feeling even more uncomfortable in her costume, Anne shed the purple material, and slipped on her plain grey dress, and wrapped herself in her mama’s silk shawl. She tied her locks back in a bun, not bothering to make a fuss with pins this time.

Even more shouting could be heard, and then screaming. Ear-splitting screams. This time it was Queenie who peeked out the crack in the door, and gasped. “Fire!” she shrieked. They threw open the door and all bundled out into the corridor, and saw for themselves the flames licking up the walls of the circus, engulfing everything it touched. Growing dangerously close to the second floor, the wooden stairs - the only way down - weakened by the fire, the girls were desperate for a chance to escape. Down below they saw ashy figures running through the open doors, into the relief of the evening air. Names were being called out, but Anne couldn’t make out who’s in particular, as the crackling of the flames became deafening.

“We’ll have to go down here!” Patsey roared, over the fire, pointing at the troublingly fragile stairs. Wooden beams were starting to fall down below, and the stands were all ablaze, only making the fire more ferocious. Another few minutes, and the flames would have reached them on the second floor. “There’s no other way down!"

The women all nodded. Patsey volunteered to go first, as it was her idea. She cautiously took a step forward, and went to hold the handrail, before crying out in pain. Pulling her hand back, Anne spotted a blistering welt bubbling up on her palm. The railing was scalding hot. They’d have to rely on their feet to carry them down, and trust their instincts to not put a foot wrong, or else risk plummeting to the floor below.

Patsey was vigilant, but slow. Grace had to quicken her pace down the unsteady steps or else there would have been no time for the others. Queenie went next, at the insistence of Anne. She could see the planks of wood crumbling, and knew that if she were to go last and they gave way under her, that she’d be able to land on her feet. Twelve years of trapeze and acrobatics practice agreed with her.

However, by the time Queenie had reached the floor, the stairs had completely collapsed. Adding fuel to the fire quite literally, the flames spat at Anne’s ankles, and the heat was unbearable. Jumping down was not an option, not anymore, as there was no safe place to settle. The women stared up at Anne in horror, the smoke overcoming them. Calling down to them, Anne assured them she’d find a way out, despite her hammering heart and sweaty palms, and told them to go outside and find the others.

She hoped that there were others to find.

Anne rushed back into her room. The fire was spreading rapidly now, and she feared if she didn’t come up with a solution quickly, she’d succumb to the flames. _The window._ Of course, the window. She swung it open, and sat on the ledge. There was a large oak within distance of her, meaning all she had to do was leap onto the outstretched branch, and she’d be safe. Taking a deep breath, and convincing herself that it was just another trick, Anne soared through the air. Finding her mark, her fingers curled around the branch, as she dropped to the floor.

Not wasting another second, she ran to the front of the building, where she could see the coughing and spluttering cluster of acts that had made it out in time. To her relief, there wasn’t a single face missing, even P. T., Charity and the girls were amongst those watching the flames swallow up their home. Animals of all kinds were speeding past her, the fire spooking them.

“W. D.!” she called out, her voice hoarse from the smoke she had inhaled.

“Anne! Look, there she is!” she heard P. T. cry.

Sprinting towards her brother, she leapt into his arms. He held her tightly, clearly afraid that he’d nearly lost her. He smelt of soot, and smoke, and sweat, but she didn’t care. She was reluctant to let him go, until she heard the crowd shout out, expressions of horror on their faces. Turning around, she saw P. T. hurtle back into the building, his jacket held over his head.

“Why’s he going back in?” Anne demanded, her arms still wrapped around her brother. Her eyes scanned the crowd again, and she suddenly felt her heart plummet. “W. D., where’s Phillip?"

He couldn’t say a word. His gaze was fixated on the door, the flames reflected in his inky coloured orbs. Anne pulled away from him, and heard yet another scream, this time a girl’s. It was chilling, and it was spine-tingling, and made all her hair stand on end. It took her a second to realise that it had came from her. Tears were falling down her ash-stained cheeks, and she could feel W. D. holding her firmly; she was trying to run back into the circus. Her knees were threatening to buckle, and if it wasn’t for her brother’s steadfast grip, she’d have crumpled to the floor.

The crowd fell silent, apart from Anne’s sobs, as they all waited. Not a particularly religious person, Anne found herself making every deal and promise imaginable to the Lord so that he would return Phillip to her. Return the only man she had ever loved - her family not included of course. She found herself trying to picture his face, desperately trying to remember what he looked like. His sparkling, blue eyes that looked at her as though she were the most treasured and beautiful thing on the planet. His smile, as false it had recently been, was enough to make her heart skip a beat. His arms that made her feel safe and secure.

All of a sudden, a hunched figure could be seen emerging from the smoke, carrying a limp and lifeless body. At a closer look, Anne saw that it was P. T. clutching Phillip. In that moment, she froze. Her blood turned to ice, and her limbs went numb. “No, no, no,” she whispered, over and over, shaking her head. Phillip wasn’t moving, and his eyes were sealed shut. He was covered in a sickening assortment of blood, ash, and sweat.

P. T. laid Phillip down on the cobbled streets, carefully. W. D. squeezed Anne’s shoulder as he rushed to offer assistance to the ringleader, as Lettie appeared to hold her. Rubbing her back in consoling circular motions, Lettie tried to calm her. Anne hadn’t realised she was holding her breath, unmoving. “He’s taken in a lot of smoke,” P. T. spluttered, looking up at Anne in particular. “But he’s still breathing."

For the time being, that was all Anne needed to hear.


	27. “We’ll meet you at the hospital, alright?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne goes to the hospital with Phillip, only to face even more trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a little late, but I've been so busy lately that I just haven't been able to find the time to write this. However, the next few chapters should be up soon! Also, it's a little shorter than the others, but it'll all be worth it.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Anne couldn’t let go of his hand. She didn’t want to be apart from him for another second. Even when her brother and P. T. helped lift him onto a stretcher, and carried him into the back of an ambulance, her fingers remained intertwined with Phillip’s own. The men driving the cart tried to tell her she wasn’t allowed in the ambulance with them, due to a number of reasons; one being her skin colour, but the stubbornness and ferocity in her voice assured them she _would_ be riding to the hospital by Phillip’s side.

Squeezing in next to Phillip’s body, she clasped his hand in hers tighter, her eyes scanning his face for any signs of life. P. T. told her that he was breathing, but she had yet to see him breathe. Watching him closely, she felt a huge sigh of relief leave her as she saw his chest rise and fall, though worryingly shallow. Glancing up for a short minute, she saw W. D.’s empathetic expression, and took some small comfort from the smile he sent her, as though everything was going to be alright.

“We’ll meet you at the hospital, alright?” he called after her, as the cart began speeding off down the road. “Just hold tight!"

Despite her brother’s calm tone, and warm smile, Anne took one more look at Phillip, and suddenly felt her chest tighten. She was petrified that he’d never wake up, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to cope if he didn’t open his eyes. W. D. had told her that Phillip had ran back into the circus because he thought she was still inside. He’d risked his life to save her, and now she’d never get to thank him.

She’d spent the last month pushing him away, ignoring him, breaking his heart; all for what? For them both to be unhappy? Phillip had turned to drink again, and every time Anne saw him with a bottle, she felt a pang of guilt inside - she’d done that to him. In opposition, she was pushing herself to her absolute limits when it came to her act. Her ribs hadn’t fully healed, and performing trick after trick on the ropes, _and_ in her hoop, _and_ on the bars was not helping matters. They were both clearly not coping with the heartache very well, rather poorly in fact.

Anne had suspected that, deep down, it was because she feared that if Phillip was given time he’d find somebody else. He’d grow tired of her. Her and W. D. had been saying ever since Phillip arrived that it was just a phase, and he’d realise what he was missing out on sooner or later. However, him running into the fire without a second thought for his own safety to try and rescue her only proved everything he’d been saying the whole time; he truly did love her.

Anne felt a fool.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her tears falling onto his stained shirt. “This is all my fault."

When they reach the hospital, his hand is wrenched from hers. The men carry the stretcher inside, whilst one of the doctors rushed out to stop her from following. Frantically, Anne pushed past him, and raced after the men. However, before she could get any closer to Phillip, whose hand was now dangling, morbidly, from the stretcher, more doctors and nurses filed out of the doors.

“You can’t come in,” they told her, coldly, looking her up and down. The night sky and the soot only made her skin darker, and she felt sick to her stomach.

“I’m not asking to be treated, I just want to - "

“You can’t come in,” one of the nurses repeated, cruelly. “What will the patients say if they see a negro walking the halls?"

Her heart was hammering in her chest, and she had lost sight of Phillip. “I don’t care what they’ll say, I’m not there for them!” she exclaimed, her voice hoarse. “Please, I have to be in there. He can’t be alone! I have to stay with . . . my friend."

One of the doctor’s coughed, and pointed to a crudely painted sign in the window that read; ‘no blacks, no Irish, no dogs’. Anne had seen those signs before, mostly in bars, shops and cafe’s, but never in an _official_ building, like a hospital. She knew the rules, of course she did. She was to be treated at the hospital for coloured persons on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and the whites were to be treated here. However, she hadn’t realised they wouldn’t even let them step inside the premises.

Holding her hand to her forehead, she felt a sob rise in her throat. What was she to do? She couldn’t let Phillip go in there by himself. The thought of him waking up alone, or God forbid die alone, was worse than heartbreaking. As she was considering pushing past the doctors and nurses and just chasing in after him, she saw the other acts arrive, led by P. T., a determined expression on his face.

“Where’s Phillip?” he asked, brow furrowed.

Anne pointed to the doors. “They won’t let me in."

A dark cloud appeared in P. T.’s eyes, and he approached the doctor who had shown her the sign. “You’re forbidding this poor girl from going in after her friend?"

The doctor looked a little scared, as the ringleader towered over him. “It’s the law,” was all he could muster.

P. T. refused to back down. In that moment, Anne forgot all that she already thought about their ringleader, and didn’t doubt for a second that he cared for all his acts and that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for them. Neither did the doctor it seemed, who stepped aside in surrender to let Anne in. She didn’t hesitate, and sped off after Phillip. She heard doctors and patients alike gasp as she passed, but ignored it all, only one thought on her mind. Without looking around, she knew that the others were following her.

Turning corridor after corridor, she soon spotted the stretcher. Rushing over to him, she was stopped by several nurses, who were more than taken aback to see her. Hearing footsteps behind her, she knew that the others had caught up.

“We have to clean the burns first,” one of the nurses explained. “I’m afraid you can’t come in."

Looking past her shoulder, Anne watched as Phillip was lifted onto a bed, and his clothes were carefully cut off his body. She couldn’t stifle the gasp that left her lips when she saw the damage to his skin. The burns were bright scarlet and raw, and covered his entire back, and some of his chest. His arms weren’t quite as bad, and is face was mostly untouched, save for a few cuts and scrapes. His burns were horrendous. They were seeping all sorts of unpleasant liquids, and the sheets underneath him were already bloodstained. In some places the blood was so thick it was black. Wincing, tears streaming down her face, she was suddenly very glad that Phillip was still unconscious, and she couldn’t imagine the amount of pain he would be in.

Feeling somebody’s hand on her shoulder, she turned and saw Charity, tears also streaking down her cheeks. “You shouldn’t have to see this,” she told Anne, gently, and led her away. This time, Anne didn’t put up much of a fight. She collapsed into Charity’s arms, despite the woman being considerably smaller than she.

“He shouldn’t have ran after me,” she mustered through sobs. “He wouldn’t be in this condition if it wasn’t for me. I put him here."

Charity tried her best to soothe Anne, her hand moving in circular motions on the acrobat's back. “You can’t think like that,” she began, but her words fell on deaf ears.

“Phillip only ever loved me, and I kept pushing him away,” Anne continued.

They stay like that for a good few minutes, until Anne breaks away to dry her eyes. She sees Charity give her a sympathetic smile, and tries to smile back, but feels her lip tremble. Instead, she looks back through the window in the door, just in time to see the stretcher being carried back out again. The nurses laid Phillip down on an empty bed, his burns dressed. Anne takes the seat beside him, slowly, as though any loud or sudden movements might wake him.

She can hear the doctors and nurses arguing with Charity and P. T. behind her, no doubt about how she can’t stay because she’s the wrong colour, but she tunes out. All her focus is on Phillip, and she tentatively reaches out and holds his hand in hers. He’s burning hot to touch, and she feared a fever was settling in. Her eyes scanned his face, his beauty still as prominent as ever, despite being marred slightly by the black eye, and a nasty gash on his forehead. Even in slumber his forehead was creased, and she wondered what he was dreaming about. She wanted to hold him, whisper in his ear that everything was going to be alright, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie. She didn’t know what was going to happen. She could hope for the best, but there was still that dreadful chance that he may never open his eyes again.

Somebody’s talking to her, but she can’t make out the words. “I’m not leaving him,” she refused, determinedly, though her voice cracked a little. Eventually the others left, allowing them some privacy. W. D. came over and planted a kiss atop his sister’s head, and promised to be back soon.

After all the acts had gone, Anne breathed out a sigh she hadn’t realised she’d been holding in. “I love you,” she whispered to Phillip. “All you have to do is wake up."


	28. "You're here?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip wakes up in the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are going to be my favourite chapters to write, because there's not really any mention of how Phillip gets better in the film, so I'm free to think up anything here!
> 
> Also, I'd just like to say thank you to everyone who reads this, and to all those who keep returning, chapter after chapter. I think that you're all the reason why I'm so motivated to carry on.
> 
> Please enjoy!

* * *

Anne didn’t let her eyes slip for more than a second. Sleep wasn’t as important as keeping watch over Phillip, making sure he was comfortable and calm, and ensuring that when his eyes open she was the first thing he saw. She wanted him to know, more than anything, that she was there. That she was there, and that she loved him. The mere thought that he could die thinking that she didn’t want to be with him was heart-wrenching.

His hand was limp. His fingertips, black with soot, were cold. All night he had been switching between a state of burning fever and shivering. The nurses had assured her that it was just his immune system working hard to combat the wounds, but it was still concerning all the same. He tossed and turned, and once or twice he called out her name. He was trapped inside a nightmare he couldn’t wake from, one where Anne was inside the blazing fire. Tears fell and her lips wobbled as she held a damp cloth to his forehead.

Only a few of the nurses would even look her way, and even less could bring themselves to talk to her. One in particular was rather nice, her name Fran. She brought Phillip extra blankets when the cold became biting, and brought Anne glasses of water that would only go untouched.

Early in the morning, just as the sun began to rise, her brother stopped by with some of Phillip’s things from his office, including the unopened package Phillip had tried to give her just over twenty four hours ago. A breath hitched in her throat as W. D. handed it over to her. The wrapping was neat, and Anne smiled sadly as she imagined Phillip taking care to fold the paper, his gentle and smooth hands bending the creases. Glancing over at Phillip, she was overwhelmed with guilt, thinking back to the hurt expression on his face when she pushed the gift back into his hands.

W. D. perched on the arm of her chair, and watched with interest. Reluctantly she took her hand from Phillip’s, and felt it’s absence immediately, as though her lungs had stopped working. She opened the present gingerly, not wanting to damage the thing inside. She saw a glimpse of gilded gold writing. Pulling the item out of the wrapping, she felt a sharp intake of air leave her body, shocked. It was a beautifully bound copy of _Gulliver’s Travels_ , by Jonathan Swift. Tears streamed from her eyes, as she opened it up to the first page. There was an inscription on the inside, written in Phillip’s endearing handwriting. Squinting, she tried her best to make out the words, but struggled. Anne handed it to W. D., knowing that he’d understand it better than she.

“ _You fall . . . I jump . . . remember?_ ” he read, and turned to his sister to see if the words meant anything.

Anne held a hand to her mouth, as to stop the sob from escaping. Those were the same words he had uttered to her that night on the boat, the night she fell in love with him. They meant everything to her now, knowing that he would indeed jump after her, as he jumped back into the fire to save her. She reached out and took Phillip’s hand again. “I remember,” she muttered under her breath, holding his hand to her lips.

* * *

Two whole days Phillip was out cold. Two whole days he was in pain, calling out her name, bruised and bloody. Two whole days Anne waited for him to stir. Two whole days she evaded sleep, ate nothing and took meagre sips of water, never leaving his side.

Circus acts dropped by now and then, bringing flowers and fresh clothes, but none could bear to stay long. The heartbreaking scene that was Anne beside Phillip’s bed, begging for him to come back to her, was too much for some. They didn’t want to intrude, and gave the pair the privacy they deserved; God knows the whole world will be watching the second they leave the hospital.

P. T. may have convinced the staff to allow Anne to stay, but there were limitations in place as to how many of the oddities they could host. This meant Anne found herself alone most of the time, with only the few other patients, a couple of sneering doctors, Fran, and Phillip. To pass the time she would try and read a few pages from Gulliver’s Travels, lovingly caressing the spine and turning the pages delicately.

Eventually the strain on her eyes became too much, and she had to put the book down or else risk falling asleep. Instead, she took to singing the Zimbabwean lullaby she had sung to the Barnum girls. It calmed her, and kept her awake. Across the room she saw a patient turn his back to her, and place a pillow over his ears. It didn’t bother Anne much; the song wasn’t for anyone else. _Ehuhwe Nyarara Mwana_ was for Phillip, to ease his nightmares. It worked too, as his forehead straightened out, and his lips curled up slightly.

Admiring his face as she sung the lullaby, she was allowed to stare at him when she never had been able to before, not without getting caught. She stroked his hair, half stuck to his forehead in sweat. He was extraordinarily handsome - always had been. The second her eyes met his, where he stood up on the balcony in his finery, all piercing blue eyes and sharp jawlines. He’d taken her breath away, but not just because of his remarkable beauty. He looked at her as though she were snow on Christmas morning, or rain after a drought. Nobody had ever looked at her the way he did that day, the way he still did. She had never met anybody like him; someone as beautiful on the outside as they were on the inside.

She perched herself on his bed, as she finished the song. Holding his hand up, she examined his charred fingers. She wasn’t surprised to see he had bitten his fingernails a considerable amount - Phillip was full of bad habits; drink, the occasional cigarette, and _her_.

Suddenly his fingers twitched, and she could feel the tears spilling out. Watching with baited breath, she saw his eyes flicker open. She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back. Compared to the blood and soot smeared on his face, the bright blue of his eyes was a welcome sight. He glanced between Anne, and her hand in his, disbelief written across his features. Filled with relief, she clasped his hand with both of hers, and rested her chin atop of their hands, holding him closely. She was smiling through the tears.

“You’re here?” Phillip muttered, cocking his head to the side.

Everything that had led up to them being there, in the hospital, washed over Anne. How she had tried to bury her feelings, and hurt Phillip in the process. How seeing him being carried out of the flames caused her to realise that he truly loved her. How she had loved him this whole time. In a split second, she retracted her hands from his, and looked down at him. He was looking at her in that way of his, the way that made her feel cherished, and special, and _loved_. She wanted him to know how she felt in return, and so bent down and kissed him. Holding his face in her hands, her lips touched his, and she fiercely and longingly _kissed_ him.

His hands were on her arms, as she pulled away, slowly. She couldn’t help the smile from spreading across her face, and saw Phillip smile too. It was everything she had imagined, and more, kissing Phillip Carlyle. Their lips fitted together like pieces of a jigsaw, as though they were meant for no one else’s lips but each other’s. She rested her forehead against his, whilst his fingers ran through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. With what little strength he had, he held the back of head, guiding her. They kissed again, and again. Anne shook her head as though she were in a dream and she was going to wake up any minute now. But Phillip’s smile, that was real. It captivated her, as he tilted his head to kiss her again.

Neither one wanted to stop. They were fully aware of the audience they had accumulated, but ignored them all the same. Phillip tasted like salt, though Anne thought that may just be her tears falling onto their lips, and copper-like blood. Yet, he was still him. His kiss was gentle and delicate, in spite of his strong and sinewy frame, just like his hands were soft and tender.

“You’re here,” he repeated, breathless.

* * *

Last time he had been conscious, he was convinced she was trapped inside a burning building. Anne was also the last person he would have expected to find sitting at the foot of his bed, tears in her eyes, clutching his hand like a life raft - and yet, there she was.

When she kissed him, he was so afraid he was still stuck inside his own mind, in another dream, that he had to reach out and touch her. But it was all real. Anne’s lips were on his, and her hands on his face. Ever since meeting her all those months ago, he had been imagining just what it would be like to kiss her. When he saw her kissing another man, it was as though she had pulled his heart from his chest. Then, she admitted to pretending it was him, and there was a glimmer of hope. Now she truly was kissing him, and it was magical. Her touch was just enough for him to forget his aching bones and searing skin, and just focus on her.

They were both starved; starved of one another. Ardently and fervently they kissed one another, until they were both left breathless, lips swollen ever so slightly. Anne’s hands slipped down to his chest, sending shivers down his spine.

“You’re here,” he repeated, gasping for air. She nodded, a tear falling from her chocolate brown eyes, a tender smile on her expression. “I thought . . . I thought . . . the fire."

Phillip couldn’t say any more, the words getting lost before he could utter them. A dark cloud threatened to overshadow them, as he thought back to the horror he had felt not seeing her face in the crowd of survivors. Sensing his worry, Anne planted another kiss on his lips, anchoring him back into reality - a reality that felt like a dream.

“I’m alright, Phillip,” she assured him, softly. Her voice was like music to his ears. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. I promise."

Just as Phillip opened his mouth to say something, a cough came rising out instead, shaking his entire body. Blood droplets stained the ivory sheets. Anne didn’t flinch, or jump to escape him, instead she rubbed his back and reached her to the bedside table for a glass of water for him to drink. His hands were shaky, and stiff, and so she held the glass for him, as he took little sips. The circular motions on his back were comforting, as was the gentle, soothing voice she used to tell him it was all going to be fine. She tried not to show her concern, instead busied herself in ensuring he was well and contented, but he could tell that the blood was a red flag.

He cast his mind back to seeing her in very much a similar state of ill health, blood soaking her bedsheets, and remembered how he had been shunned outside. He had wanted nothing more than to look after her, to mop her brow and hold her hand, but knew that he hadn’t earned the right to do so, or her trust. Now, here she was, doing just that, with a smile on her face.

“I should be taking care of you,” he sighed, as she set the cup down and rearranged his pillows for him to sit comfortably.

Anne laughed, taking a loose curl behind her ear. “Do I look like I need to be taken care of?” she asked him, an eyebrow raised. One look at Anne proved to Phillip that she was almost completely untouched by the fire, save for a few little scrapes and bruises on her arms. She then smirked. “Anyway, when we grow old together you can help me down the stairs if it makes you feel better. Cut my food up too if you’d like, and tuck me into bed. For now, however, I’ll look after you because I love you."

The whole statement that left Anne’s mouth did not escape Phillip, not for a moment. She had said _when_ they grow old together, and had told him she loved him again, this time without looking as though it pained her to admit it. He beamed, unable to hide it, and reached out to caress her cheek. She leaned into his palm, smiling warmly, and he never felt luckier.

“I love you too,” he told her, his voice never faltering despite his hoarse throat. “I always have."


	29. “Is he . . . I mean, will he be . . . alright?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip receives some visitors in the hospital.

* * *

A combination of relief that Phillip was awake (and alive), and exhaustion from having no sleep for just over forty-eight hours sent Anne into a deep slumber that she only awoke from when a nurse came to wake the pair of them up. She had fallen asleep in Phillip’s bed, sprawled on top of the sheets, with his arm around her. Her head was rested in the crook of his neck. It was comfortable, and warm, and Anne couldn’t remember feeling safer.

Fran stood over them, as she shook the pair lightly awake. Anne pulled herself free from Phillip’s grasp, rather reluctantly, blushing a deep scarlet. The nurse proceeded to unravel Phillip’s bandages, where the burns, though still severe, seemed to have begun healing themselves. As Fran began to clean his wounds, a process that looked excruciating, he managed to grin over at Anne, as she held his hand.

“What are you so happy about?” she asked him, incredulously.

“I think I could get used to waking up next to you every morning,” he replied, honestly, still beaming.

Her blush deepened, as Phillip’s grip on her hand tightened, the pain clearly affecting him more than he wanted to let on. After Fran had finished wrapping the fresh bandages around Phillip’s burns, she got up to leave when Anne followed her. Nervously, the acrobat wrung her hands, scared to ask what was on the tip of her tongue.

“Is he . . . I mean, will he be . . . alright?” she murmured. Even though the burns were begin to look a little less raw, they still covered his entire back, and some of his chest. Every time he moved they would split open, and he would cry out in pain. It was hard to watch, but Anne had stuck by, putting on a brave face.

Giving her a comforting smile, Fran placed a hand on Anne’s arm. “Mr Carlyle has some very serious burns, yes, but nothing that won’t heal,” she assured her, calmly and softly. “There will be scarring, if that’s what you’re asking?"

Anne shook her head, and dismissed the comment. “Oh, that ain’t gonna be a problem. At least, not for me."

Taking her seat beside Phillip again, feeling considerably more relieved than before, she beamed at him, and ran her hand through his chestnut coloured hair, pushing it back off his face. He was watching her, intently, his eyes lit up. “How is it I got to be so lucky to have girl like you fall in love with me?"

Glancing around the room, Anne raised an eyebrow. “Well, you’re in a hospital with third degree burns, I’d say you’re not that lucky,” she joked, then cocked her head to the side. Curiosity got the better of her. “When did you realise you loved me?"

“The second I saw you,” Phillip answered, without hesitation. He then grinned. “Though that makes me sound as though I only love you for your looks, so instead I’ll say I knew I loved when we met officially, and you asked me what my act was. You were so breathtaking, and so confident, and so fascinating that I’d have been mad to not fall for you. What about you? When did it dawn on you that you were madly in love with me?"

Anne chuckled. “Easy now, madly is a bit of exaggeration,” she teased, though reached out and took Phillip’s hand in hers, assuring him that it was no understatement. “That evening on the boat, when you gave me my first reading lesson. You told me that if I ever fell into the water, you’d jump after me. That . . . well, that meant a lot."

As she spoke, Phillip brushed his thumb over her knuckles, in a loving manner.

“Which reminds me,” she said, smiling. Anne leant over and took the book from off the bedside table, and held it in her spare hand. “Thank you for the book, I love it."

* * *

A couple of hours passed, wherein Anne sat in her chair, trying to read Gulliver’s Travels to Phillip. She made it through the first three pages, with Phillip beaming proudly at her the whole time. Whenever she faltered or stumbled, she would look up from the page and see his encouraging smile, and felt inspired to continue.

It was a warming feeling, knowing that this is what life was going to be like now that she had Phillip. If she ever doubted herself, or questioned herself, she knew that she just had to look into Phillip’s dazzling blue eyes, and know that she was enough. Whether he knew or not that he had given her this gift, she was grateful for him, and reached out to hold his hand.

Opening her mouth to say something, she was interrupted by the sound of little footsteps sprinting across the hospital floor. Whipping her head around, she saw Helen and Caroline bounding over to them, Charity not far behind. Their expressions were bright, and happy, glad to see Phillip awake and alive. They stood at the end of his bed, hesitant to step any closer. Though they were pleased to see him sat up, and smiling at them, they were clearly taken aback a little by the cuts and bruises on his face. Anne gestured for them to step closer, patting her knee for Helen to sit down on her lap. The youngest Barnum obliged, and wrapped her arms around Anne’s neck.

“Don’t you have something for Phillip?” Charity spoke up, her hands on Caroline’s shoulders.

Caroline nodded, and pulled her hands from behind her back, where they saw that she was clutching a piece of paper of some sorts. She held it out to Phillip, who took it with gratefulness. Anne watched his reaction closely, and spotted a few rogue tears welling up in his eyes. It was a card, and she could see how considerately and beautifully it had been decorated. Phillip showed her the inside, and she didn’t have to be able to read to see all the different signatures scribbled inside.

“It’s a get well soon card,” he told her, his voice catching. Clearly, gestures like this weren’t as common in the Carlyle household, and the way he was looking at the card sent shivers down her spine. “The whole circus has signed it."

Helen held out a bright, green pencil for Anne in her little hand. “We’ve left space for you too."

“Oh baby, that’s so sweet of you,” she cooed. Carefully, Anne took the pencil from Helen and the card from Phillip, and didn’t hesitate in thinking up what she should write inside. Her grip was shaky, and her handwriting was atrocious, but the words were delicate; _I love you, Anne_. She had more to say to him, of course, but they had their whole lives to speak everything on their minds. Spotting Anne’s message, Helen giggled. She pointed it out to Caroline, who couldn’t help but giggle too, and even Charity managed a grin.

To avoid questions that Anne wasn’t ready to answer yet - whatever her and Phillip were, she wanted to keep it between them for a little while, or at least until they could talk about it - she hoisted Helen up, and spun her around. One of the elderly patients, seated in the bed at the end of the hospital, was playing music on a piano that the doctors had installed to keep the patients calm. Helen balanced herself on Anne’s feet, as the pair tried to dance to the music. Charity and Phillip watched, laughing, as Caroline clapped.

Her hair falling about about her face, Anne turned around to beam at Phillip. Hands clasped in Helen’s, she was considerably taller, and their dancing was clumsy. Suddenly, she watched as Phillip pushed back the sheets, and swung his legs cautiously out of the bed. He stood up, clutching the headboard, and proceeded to stumble over to Anne, who was watching wide-eyed and slack jawed.

“May I step in?” he asked Helen, who nodded energetically. Phillip smiled, as he took ahold of Anne’s hand in one of his, and slid another around her waist. Gasping, she allowed him to sway her to the music. She was concerned, of course, about his burns opening up, but she was more shocked. For three days he had barely moved a muscle, and now here he was dancing with her.

“Are you sure this is safe?” she muttered, feeling him stagger a little.

Phillip only pulled her in a little closer. “Please can you just let me forget about what happened for a moment, so I can dance with a beautiful girl for a while?"

She nodded, and gave him a tender smile. The dance was slow, and she was careful, but it was still progress. After a while, Caroline tugged on Anne’s dress, and asked if she could step in. Obliging, Anne stepped back, and relished in watching Phillip dance with the little girl, finding the scene incredibly heartwarming. She stood beside Charity, who was watching her closely.

“So, you two finally saw sense and realised your feelings for one another?” she asked, smirking somewhat.

“It’s anything _but_ sense,” Anne sighed, and then blushed. “But yes, I admitted to him that I loved him. I even kissed him."

Charity nudged her, and beamed, though it felt a little distant. “I’m glad, you two are made for each other. Lord knows we need a little happiness at the moment."

Furrowing her brow, Anne tore her eyes away from Phillip and Caroline for a monet to give Charity a concerned look. “Has something else happened?"

“I’ve taken the girls and we’re living with my parents for the time being,” Charity confessed. Feeling her heart sink, Anne was astounded. “I can’t bear to look at him, let alone be in the same room as him. He swears blind that nothing happened between him and Jenny Lind on the tour, but the newspapers say different."

Reaching out to place a hand on Charity’s arm, Anne hated seeing her upset, especially when she had always been so kind to her in the past. “You know what the papers are like, can’t trust a word they say."

Charity sighed, and Anne could see tears threatening to spill from her eyes. “There were pictures, Anne.”

Unsure of what to say, Anne was fuming. P. T. was hardly her most favourite person, given everything that had happened recently, but the man had always been generous to her and her brother, giving them a chance when plenty of others before had turned them away. Now, she could hardly stomach the thought of him, looking at what he had done to Charity, the nicest and sweetest person to walk the earth. She wrapped her arms around the woman, and held her close. It allowed Charity to spill some tears without her daughter’s spotting her distress.

* * *

In what felt like no time at all, the hour had flown by, and Charity and the girls had to leave. Phillip, now tucked safely back up in his bed, waved goodbye to Helen and Caroline, as they blew him and Anne kisses. She took her seat beside him once more, and prepared to spill the news about P. T. and Charity’s split, when a doctor appeared at the foot of the bed. He barely glanced in Anne’s direction, as he cleared his throat, clutching onto a very professional-looking clipboard.

“Yes, doctor?” Phillip asked, trying to push himself up, but struggling. He screwed his face up in pain, and Anne rushed to hold him up, her hands easing him into a comfortable position.

“Good afternoon, Mr Carlyle,” the doctor replied, nodding his head in the way that respectable men use to greet other respectable men in. “I have some good news for you. It appears that your burns are beginning to heal nicely, and though some smoke is trapped in your lungs, there are no other internal injuries. You are free to go home tomorrow, with the assurance that your maid here will be able to dress your bandages, and take care of you adequately."

Despite the great announcement, Anne felt as though she had been slapped in the face. _'Your maid’_. That was just as insulting with _‘the help’_ , and the mere fact that the doctor had taken one look at her skin, and assumed that she could be nothing more than a servant, reminded her why she wasn’t welcome in places like this. She was barely considered a person in the eyes of men like the doctor. Stiffening in her seat, she tried to focus on the more optimistic side to his statement, but struggled.

Suddenly, she felt Phillip’s hand reach out and clasp hers. He smiled warmly at her, the love in his gesture and his eyes surging through her veins, replacing her discomfort. “Excuse me, but Anne is my partner, not a maid,” Phillip was quick to make clear, his voice never faltering. It filled Anne with such pride, and affection, that she could not say a word. This was the first time he’s defended her, and she’d been there to witness it. Not that she needed it, but it was further proof that he loved her more than she knew. “And I can assure you, she’ll take good care of me."

The doctor clearly did not know how to react. His lips formed a thin line, and he gripped his clipboard tighter, and he merely nodded his head once more, and left.

“I’m sorry, are you alright?” Phillip asked her, anxiously, his hand still holding onto hers. She nodded, still in awe. “I shouldn’t have assumed that you’d take care of me, because it means you’ll have to live in my apartment whilst I’m on the mend, and I can’t expect you to - "

Before he could even finish his sentence, Anne’s lips were on his. The pair kissed, and it was just as electric as the first time. Her hands rested on his chest, gently, as his hands rested on her back. Pulling apart, though their foreheads still touching, Anne smiled. “Of course I’ll be there to look after you,” she muttered, breathless.


	30. “This is where you live, and you’ve been sleeping at the circus this whole time?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne takes Phillip home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's comments are so lovely, that I felt I had to update quickly to make up for my delay in updating the last chapter. I'm nearly at the end! I assure you, however, that there will be a 'what happens next' after I finish this story, if people want to read it!
> 
> Thank you! Please enjoy.

* * *

It was fortunate that the next day, just as Anne was helping Phillip out of bed, her brother and Constantine arrived. Phillip was more than a little uncomfortable when the two other men showed up, especially as Anne was putting his shoes on for him. Not that he wasn’t grateful, it just didn’t feel right that Anne was running around after him. His inabilities were only highlighted further when W. D. and Constantine wrapped their arms around his shoulders and hoisted him up.

Anne signed him out of the hospital, to the shock of the receptionist, and they all bundled out of the doors into the bustling streets. They struggled to hail a cab, and so they decided to walk home instead. Phillip, between coughs and splutters, gave them directions to his apartment, which was situated on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. As they hobbled past ladies and gentleman in their fine clothes and judgemental sneers, Phillip could sense the discomfort of his friends walking beside him. Constantine with his myriad of ink sketchings, and W. D. and Anne with their dark skin, meant that they attracted all sorts of unwelcome attention. Even Phillip, who had walked past the upper classes many times, never once looked down upon, was now being regarded as something peculiar and undesirable, as his clothes were dishevelled, torn and stained, and he was being half-dragged along by the two circus acts.

Walking beside Constantine was Anne, clutching her book and her shawl around her shoulders. She was laughing at something Constantine had said, her chestnut coloured eyes sparkling. They arrived at his apartment, and the laughter died off, as she stared up at the building in astonishment. Her eyes widened, as she turned to face Phillip.

“This is where you live, and you’ve been sleeping at the circus this whole time?” she asked, incredulously.

Somewhat embarrassed, Phillip merely shrugged. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, and felt panic wash over him as he felt nothing. Anne then opened her hand, and showed him the keys, grinning. Unlocking the door for him, she swung it open, and peered inside. There was something nice about seeing Anne stood in the doorway of his apartment, as if she belonged there.

“So, do you want us to help you inside or . . . ?” W. D. began, looking up at the apartment building.

Anne shoved her brother, teasingly, chuckling a little. “He just wants to take a peek, ignore him,” she laughed.

“Lettie’s found us a place on the Lower East Side,” W. D. continued. “There’s a bed for you too, Anne."

Anxiously, Anne looked down at her feet, though she looped an arm through Phillip’s. “I promised Phillip I’d stay here with him, just for a little while,” Anne murmured, conscious of what her brother would say and think. Clearly, she had just cause to be worried. W. D. crossed his arms, and glowered at the pair of them. Phillip held on to her, tightly, letting her know that he was there for her. “I need to take care of him, W. D., please."

His expression softened, and W. D. sighed. “Fine. But separate rooms, alright? And no funny business. Just ‘cause you got burnt up, doesn’t mean I won’t break your legs - "

Blushing, Anne shook her head, holding her forehead. “You can go now, you’ve made your point,” she muttered, turning to lead Phillip inside, but not before giving W. D. a warm smile. “Thank you, though. You’re a good brother."

With that she waved goodbye to Constantine and W. D., and closed the door. Once inside, she looked around the apartment, bright eyed. She took Phillip into the lounge, and gasped. The room was particularly grand, admittedly. Phillip hadn’t thought much of it, seeing as though he had known nothing else his whole life, but for someone like Anne, it was staggering. She sat him down on a chair, making sure he was comfortable, and began to walk around him. Running her fingertips across the antiques on the shelves, all meaningless and hollow to Phillip, he watched her float around the room.

Putting aside his injuries and brush with death, he had to pinch himself to realise how lucky he was. Anne was everything he could have ever hoped for, and here she was, finally his, not that she could ever be owned.

“No wonder you were so keen on me coming to stay with you,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “A big old place like this, you’d have gotten lonely without me."

Phillip grinned. “Ah, so you saw through my ruse,” he replied, reaching out to grasp her hand, and pulling her gently towards him. She perched on the arm of his chair, as she caressed his face.

“W. D. has a point, though,” she told him, his hand snaking around her waist. “Perhaps separate rooms isn’t a bad idea. I don’t want to go too fast."

Planting a soft kiss on her cheek, his stubble tickling her slightly. “Whatever you think is best, everything is on your terms.”

Anne beamed, and brushed her thumb across his lips. “I love you,” she whispered, as she leant in to kiss him. Their lips barely touched, when the sound of a door slamming alerted them. Breaking apart, they looked in the direction of the doorway, hearts pounding.

Phillip had half-expected to see Anne’s brother stood there, glaring at him for laying his hands on her. However, he didn’t anticipate on his parents turning up. Howard and Mathilda Carlyle had let themselves in, and were regarding the sight of their son kissing Anne with appalled expressions. Anne had jumped up immediately, and was attempting to tidy herself up a little, tugging at her dress and tucking strands of loose hair behind her ears. Stepping into the lounge, Phillip’s parents were glaring at Anne, as though she were a ghost.

“Mother, father, you remember Anne - “ Phillip began, struggling to get to his feet. Ever dependent, Anne helped him carefully.

“Get your filthy negro hands off of our son!” his mother hissed, her face ashen.

Clenching his teeth, Phillip was infuriated. He reached out to hold Anne’s hand, hating that she had to endure more of his parents’ torment. He could feel her trembling a little, and wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her. “What are you doing here?"

“We’d heard about what happened at that dreadful freak show you insist on parading around, and the hospital informed us you had gone home,” his father answered sternly, whilst Mathilda fanned herself rather dramatically. “They told us you'd had a negro at your bedside, but we didn’t want to believe it. What are you doing with her Phillip? You should know better.”

Before Phillip could utter an answer, or better yet ask them to leave, his mother interrupted once again. “Seducing her way to the top, that’s what!” she exclaimed, hysterically. “No doubt she heard of our wealth, and thought that she’d exploit your . . . weakness when it comes to women."

“Anne is not like that, mother,” Phillip cried, raising his voice as he furrowed his brow. “I’d appreciate you showing her some respect."

“Her sort are _always_ like that, Phillip,” his father grumbled, nostrils flaring. He turned to face Anne, who was barely able to meet any of them in the eyes. Howard reached into his pocket, and pulled out his check book. “How much will it take for you to leave this family alone?"

Tears were spilling from Anne’s eyes, as she furiously tried to hide her upset. Blood boiling, Phillip stepped forward and stared his father down. “You do not get to step into my house and talk to the girl I love like this. I have warned you before, I want no part in your life any more. I’ll only ask you this once; get out, now."

Stunned and red-faced, his parents were hesitant to comply, but soon began shuffling towards the door, as Phillip slammed it behind them. Taking a deep breath, he walked back into the lounge, where he spotted Anne glancing into the mirror, dabbing at her tears. Her eyes, such a rich shade of mahogany that they were almost black, were raking over her every feature, analysing and scrutinising herself. Phillip stood behind her, and watching with trepidation. Anne’s hands were still shaking, as she touched her face, and pulled at her hair. She was sobbing now, tugging at her face harshly, as though she wished to rub the colour from her complexion.

Quickly, Phillip reached forward and clasped his hands around hers, and gently held them. He peered his head over her shoulder, so that they were looking at each other through the mirror. “I’m the wrong colour, I ain't good enough, I’m - "

“Oh my love, you are perfect in every way possible,” Phillip assured her, his voice soft and tender. He held her close to him, so that they shared the same warmth. “There is no such thing as the ‘wrong colour’, only wrong opinions. You are beautiful, inside and out. It’s _me_ who is not good enough for _you_."

Anne smiled, despite the tears, and leant into his embrace. She turned around in his arms, and they suddenly found themselves gazing into one another’s eyes. Her lips parted, and he could feel how fast her heart was beating inside her chest. Phillip ran a hand through her hair, pushing a few strands from off her face. This touch spurred her to lean forward and kiss him. It wasn’t gentle, like the others. Instead, it was full of passion, and amour, Anne’s lips setting the pace. Carefully, Phillip backed her against the wall, as her hands roamed through his hair, his on her back. She was so slight and slender that he would have worried about being too rough with her if he hadn’t seen her perform impossible aerial acts night after night. Instead, it was she who was concerned about him, breaking free from their embrace, to check that he was alright.

“You can’t tire yourself out,” she reminded him, ironically rather breathless. Her lips were swollen, and her cheeks tinged pink. Even though her eyes kept stealing glances at his own lips, she was clearly trying to compose herself. “You’re still in recovery."

She disappeared to take her things upstairs into the spare room, but not before throwing Phillip a mischievous grin from the doorway.

* * *

Later that evening, after Anne had made and served them a most fantastic meal of something she called gumbo - a first for Phillip - she began to clear away the plates. Again feeling uncomfortable that Anne was doing all the work for him, he tried to get up and help, but she insisted he stay put. Kissing him on the cheek, she promised him that she didn’t mind.

Sat back in his chair, feeling full of hearty, good food, Phillip felt the fortune wash over him again. As Anne floated around the table, carrying the plates and cutlery out, and packing items away, he couldn’t help but feel as though he was watching her in slow motion. Her hair, which she had tied back into a bun atop her head, was as untameable as ever, chocolate coloured tendrils bouncing about her face. Her skin glowed, something she attributed to good rest and a hot meal, things she admittedly had deprived herself of waiting for him to awake. Her eyes sparkled, and her smile was as radiant as ever.

When everything had been tidied away, she glanced over up at the clock on the wall, and then back at Phillip. “I've enough time to dress your wounds before bed,” she told him, slowly, as though asking for permission.

Grimacing, Phillip nodded. He walked into the lounge, as she followed, carrying a bowl of warm water and a cloth. Standing in the centre of the room, she began to unbutton his shirt. A blush crept up her cheeks as his chest was revealed. Though she had seen him bare like this only a couple of times before, they were under more stressful and grievous circumstances. Now, they were alone. Her fingertips grazed his arms as she slipped the shirt off, sending a shiver down his spine.

“You can . . . you can sit, if it’s easier,” she murmured, trying to avert her eyes.

Phillip took a seat at the piano, on the stool. It would be more practical there, as Anne could reach his back without difficulty, and he could play the piano to calm them both. Unravelling the bandages, Anne gasped a little. She set the old dressings aside, as she picked up the wet cloth and started to dab at the wounds. Bracing himself, Phillip tensed slightly, still not quite used to the stinging sensation.

“I’m sorry,” Anne muttered behind him.

“You don’t have to be,” Phillip assured her, kindly. “You didn’t set me on fire."

“I might as well have,” came Anne’s unsteady voice. “You went in after me, it’s my fault you’re in such a bad way."

Turning around in his seat, Phillip pressed his forehead to hers. “Anne, this isn’t your fault. It was my choice to go back into the circus, and I’d make it every time, if I thought I could save you. Would you have ran in if it was me - or W. D.?” He suddenly realised how presumptuous that sounded, and reprimanded his slip of the tongue.

“I nearly did run in after you, but W. D. held me back,” she whispered, and his heart burst. The fear of her being swallowed up by the flames was drowned out by his adoration of her, knowing that she wanted to go in and rescue him too.

Beaming, he kissed Anne again, lightly and delicately, and swivelled back around so that she could continue dressing his burns. Though, this time the pain was easier to manage.

After the new bandages had been wrapped around the wounds, Anne helped him up the stairs, despite his protests that he was capable to climb them himself. Not wanting to take any chances, Anne threw her arm around his broad shoulders, and allowed him to lean on her as the made their descent. Admittedly, it was made more plain sailing with her help. He had already dressed into his nightwear, and so all she had to do was help him into bed. She tucked him in, strands of her hair tickling his face as she leant over him. She smelt like lavender. Before she left, she kissed his forehead.

As she walked towards the door, Phillip frowned. “Where are you going?” he called after her. He knew she had wanted to take things slow, and he respected her decision to do so. He wasn’t expecting any ‘funny business’ as her brother had called it, but he at least wanted the comfort of knowing she was beside him.

Illuminated by the candle in her hands, she cocked her head to the side. “I’ll be sleeping in the spare room, alright? Lord knows you have plenty of them,” she answered, her Southern accent as strong as ever; it wasn’t making her leaving any easier. “If you need me, just call out."

“But - "

“Goodnight, Phillip,” she smiled, and then closed the door.

Sighing, Phillip was left alone in the dark room. He had spent more time with Anne over the past few days than he’d ever had, and felt her absence as cruelly as ever. His lips burned everywhere she had kissed him, and the scent of her lingered in his nose.

* * *

_Anne was trapped inside the circus. Flames were creeping up the walls, and bricks were tumbling from the building, the fire devouring everything it touched. Phillip stared in horror as he tried to run towards the crumbling building, his feet frozen to the cobbled street. He could her screaming, shrieking, calling out his name. She was begging him to save her, but he couldn’t move. Nobody else could hear her, nobody else knew that she was still inside. Phillip did, Phillip knew, but there was nothing he could do. She was dying, dying in the most horrific way imaginable, and he was letting it happen._

_Shouting her name, over and over, the sound of crackling fire swallowed up his cries. His pleas fell on deaf ears. He was desperate to get to her, his bones feeling as though they were snapping and breaking as he tried to break free of his bonds._

Suddenly, he felt hands shaking him, warm, familiar hands, and his eyes shot open. Anne loomed over him, her expression a picture of panic. He bolted upright, and Anne flinched, backing away slightly. A candle burned on the wardrobe behind her, casting a dusky glow over the room. Sweat beaded on his forehead, as he panted. Blinking, he wanted to make sure that Anne was truly there, and not just a mirage, a figment of his imagination.

She was as mesmerising as ever, dressed in an ivory nightgown that hung off her shoulders. The candlelight meant that her gown had been rendered somewhat transparent, and he could see the shadow of her figure. Her legs were long, and her waist slender. Feeling his mouth grow dry, he looked away before he saw too much, instead focusing on her face. Her dark hair was loose, and falling about her shoulders, wild like a lion’s mane.

“Phillip, you were calling my name,” she said in a quiet voice, stepping forward.

Becoming calmer now that Anne was in the room, he reached out to hold her hand, the final test to ensure that she was real. “It was just a nightmare,” he dismissed, though the images were as vivid as ever in his mind.

“About the fire?” Anne asked, gently. Phillip nodded, a lump forming in his throat. “Is that what you were dreaming about in the hospital?"

“The whole time,” he replied, tears pricking the back of his eyes. “I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t get you out in time."

Anne held him close to her, her hands on the back of his head, supporting him as he sobbed into the crook of her neck. She soothed him, and calmed him. When the tears dried, she pulled back the sheets, not once breaking eye contact with him, and climbed into the bed beside him. She put an arm around him, and pressed her forehead to his. He closed his eyes, taking comfort in her presence.

“I’m here, Phillip,” she whispered, echoing what she had told him when he had woken up the first time in the hospital to see her sat across from him. “I’m here."


	31. “How else we gonna eat?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip and Anne pay a visit to the circus - or what remains, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised I would be back! Thank you for all your kind words, I had a lovely time in France.
> 
> Expect a new chapter by tomorrow!
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

When Phillip awoke the next morning, he had almost forgotten Anne was laid beside him in the bed, for she was so light. Her chestnut hair was sprawled out across the pillow. Against her ivory nightgown and pearly sheets, she her cocoa coloured skin glowed. In her slumber, she smiled slightly, and Phillip couldn’t help but grin too, her happiness contagious. He wanted so desperately to reach out and stroke her cheek, or kiss her lips, but didn’t want to disturb her. Instead, he laid back, enjoying the sensation of having her beside him, warmth radiating off her body.

Admittedly, Anne was not the first girl he’d ever played host to in this bed. There had been a handful before her, but looking at her then, he decided that he never wanted anybody else. Despite his own wealth of experience, he knew that when she awoke, he had to be considerate, and delicate. For a girl like Anne, who had blushed at the thought of sharing his bed, waking up beside a man she had only just kissed a few days prior was going to be little bit nerve-wracking to say the least.

He admired her innocence. A beautiful girl such as Anne would never have been short of admirers, and judging from what the bartender had told him about half his punters fancying the ‘trapeze act with pink hair’, she could have her pick of the men. Yet, she chose him. The drunken, depressed, and disfigured writer. They weren’t even the same colour, let alone the same class, making their relationship almost impossible, and yet she still wanted him. She was brave, braver than he, and Phillip loved her all the more for it.

Anne’s eyes fluttered open, as though sensing that he was thinking of her. Yawning slightly, she looked around the room, a little disorientated, until her eyes landed on Phillip. Her cheeks immediately tinged pink, and her lips parted. Pulling the sheets up further around herself, as though she had forgotten he had already seen her in just her nightgown before, and gave him a bashful smile.

“Good morning,” Phillip muttered, turning his head to face her on the pillow. Slowly he leaned in, allowing her time to back away if need be, and planted a soft kiss on her lips.

“Morning,” she replied, her voice just that tiny bit husky as voices always are in the morning, only making her more enticing. She sat up, still clutching the sheets to her chest, her brow knitted. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell W. D. about this."

Nodding, Phillip hauled himself up too, though not as gracefully as Anne on account of his burns. “Nothing happened though,” he reminded her, grinning. She did not grin back.

“That’s beside the point,” she blushed. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she lowered her eyes, as if embarrassed. Her voice dropped to below a whisper. “I ain't even kissed somebody until Jacob kissed me."

Phillip had known she was inexperienced, but not that she had never been kissed until a month ago. Reaching out, he took her hands in his. “If I had known that, I would have kissed you every single day from the moment I met you,” he teased, though half-serious.

Anne pulled her hands free, though Phillip noticed a smile tugging at her lips. “Please don’t make fun of me,” she asked, quietly. She tried to look away, but he placed his hand on her cheek. As she leaned into his touch, he cocked his head to the side.

“I promise, I’m not trying to,” he assured her, softly. “I just find myself wishing that it had been me who got to kiss you first."

A small cloud of sadness lingered in Anne's eyes for a split second. “I wanted it to be you,” she reminded him. Then she beamed, as she leant in a little closer to him. “You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted to kiss, and the only man I’ll ever want to kiss."

Taking that as an invitation to kiss her, Phillip closed the gap between them and kissed her passionately. She reciprocated the gesture immediately, her hands in his hair. It was magnetic, the connection between them. Like electricity they sent sparks flying. It was only when Phillip’s hand brushed the small of her back that she pulled away, flustered. It was as though he had poked at a bruise, the way she flinched. Climbing out of bed, and throwing her shawl over her shoulders without a moment’s hesitation, she turned to face him.

“I’m going down to make breakfast, do you want a hand with the stairs?"

Phillip shook his head, and Anne disappeared out the door. Sighing, he fell back against the pillows, his heart hammering away in his chest. Running a hand through his hair, he closed his eyes and imagined her hands on his shoulders, her lips on his.

* * *

After struggling to the bottom of the stairs, Phillip was hit with a wave of the most irresistible scent in the world, after Anne of course; bacon. He sat down at the table, and found a mountain of bacon rashers waiting for him. Anne appeared by his shoulder, and poured him a cup of coffee. She had left her hair down and her glowing face bare, and he marvelled at her natural beauty for a moment, not wanting to look away.

“First dinner, and now this,” he gasped, his eyes as wide as the saucers he ate his meals off of. “Anne, you shouldn’t have."

“How else we gonna eat?” she laughed, as she took the seat opposite him. “Don’t get used to it, mind. The second those bandages come off, you’re gonna go straight into that kitchen and making me something nice."

Phillip grinned. “I make a mean omelette,” he replied, to her delight. Then, after chewing a rasher of bacon and taking a sip of coffee, he glanced nervously up at Anne. “When I touched your back earlier - "

Immediately, he saw Anne tense up. “Don’t worry about it,” she dismissed, not looking him in the eye.

“If I was going too fast, then I apologise - "

“Honestly Phillip, it’s fine,” she told him, setting her knife and fork down. She got up from the table, and he worried that he had scared her off. However, she merely crossed the room to fetch the newspaper lying on the floor in the hallway, and places it in front of him. Taking a seat next to him, she asked him to find the pages that advertise jobs. When he raised an eyebrow at her, she sighed.

“The circus has burnt down, and with it my employment,” she explained, her voice tinged with sadness. “I need to find where my next pay is coming from - but I refuse to be a maid." She added the last statement so sternly, pointing a finger at him.

Covering her hand with his, Phillip squeezed reassuringly. “You don’t have to take any job, not when I have enough money to - "

Yanking her hand free, Anne shot up, fuming. “I ain't gonna live off your money the rest of my life!” she exclaimed, brow furrowed and arms crossed. “Not when your parents will accuse me of using you for the money the second they catch wind of it! How dare you ask me to do such a thing?"

Phillip stood up to look her in they eyes, holding her shoulders. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, in a calm voice. “I think I have a way of saving the circus."

* * *

It was surprising, really, how comfortable Anne felt in Phillip’s apartment, as though she had lived there for years.

Anne was sprawled out on the sofa, her feet in Phillip’s lap as he read to her a chapter from Gulliver’s Travels, her tattered dress laid out in from of her. In her fingers she held a needle and thread, and attempted to mend the abundance of holes in the flimsy material. It wasn’t going well. Just when she thought she had sewn all that needed to be fixed, she found another rip or tear. It also didn’t help that every time Phillip coughed or spluttered, she would jump up immediately and force him to drink a whole glass of water.

Just as Phillip reached a good part in the story, they heard a knock at the door. Anne was so startled that she pricked her finger with the needle. Tensing up, she was too anxious to answer the door, half-expecting to see his parents stood on the doorstep, police in tow to throw her out. Sending her a reassuring smile that felt like a million dollars, Phillip hobbled to the door instead. When she heard laughter, she jumped up and saw her brother, Constantine, Lettie, and Charles all grinning.

Relieved, and glad to see them, she welcomed them in with Phillip by her side. They all told the pair that they couldn’t stop too long, but where glad to see Phillip feeling better.

“We’re off to the circus,” W. D. informed them.

Anne narrowed her eyebrows. “The same circus that burnt down . . . ?” she questioned. “‘Cause I don’t think there ain’t much to see anymore."

“We’re gonna see if we can save anything from the rubble, genius,” W. D. sighed, ruffling his sister’s hair. He was one of the few people tall enough to do it, and knew it wound her up. “P. T.’s gonna be there too."

Feeling her blood boil, Anne gritted her teeth. The mention of her former ringleader’s name was enough to rile her up.

“You’re more than welcome to come too,” Lettie added, sweetly. “Both of you."

Glancing to look at Phillip beside her, she pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t know if Phillip’s up to it,” she began, before he reached out and took her hand, squeezing it.

“I’ll be alright,” he assured her. “I want to go."

Reluctantly, Anne nodded. She fetched him his jacket, and put it on for him, despite his insistence that he was able to dress himself. However, the gasp of pain he released when he swivelled around to put his arm through said otherwise. She pulled her cardigan from off of the back of a chair, and slipped it on. The early August weather was pleasant, if a little sweltering. Not too many layers were needed.

All the acts filed out of the door, and Phillip’s hand fell into Anne’s naturally, and she beamed at him.

As they all began the walk to the demolished circus, Anne fell behind with Lettie, whilst Phillip walked ahead with the men. Anne watched with curiosity as the man she loved talked with her brother, and she wondered what on earth they could possibly be talking about. The weather? Sports? Her? Who knew. Frankly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Meanwhile, Lettie proceeded to ask her what living with Phillip was like.

“It’s . . . nice,” she admitted, unable to stop the beam from spreading across her face. “I feel at home with Phillip. I can see myself growing old in that apartment with him."

Lettie smiled softly at her, and rested a hand upon her forearm. “But there’s something else, isn’t there?"

Anne nodded. Nervously, she wrung her hands, and took a deep breath. “He’s having nightmares,” she told Lettie, her voice quiet and unsteady. “Of the fire, and of losing me. So, I . . . I slept in the same bed as him."

The expression that crossed Lettie’s features wasn’t the look of horror Anne had been expecting. Instead, she grinned even wider. “Oh honey, that’s fine,” Lettie assured the acrobat. She admired her innocence. “The pair of you are already scandalous. No matter what you do, you’re going to shock somebody. As long as you’re moving at a pace that you’re both comfortable with, then that’s alright."

Despite the faint blush on her cheeks, Anne smiled. Glancing over at Lettie, she felt relieved, the older woman’s words filling her with confidence that she was doing the right thing.

* * *

Phillip was barely at ease, as he walked beside W. D. Wheeler. Constantine and Charles strolled a few feet behind them, and the divide made Phillip feel somewhat uncomfortable. Did they know something he didn’t? Was W. D. about to drop some kind of bombshell that they wanted to stay far away from the fallout?

W. D. was tall, like his sister, towering over him. Their eye colour was the exact same shade of dark chestnut, their noses were identical, and they had the same smile, but that was where the similarities ended. Anne was a much lighter shade of brown than her brother, and Phillip had suspected for a long time that they were only half-siblings by law. W. D. had raven black hair, whilst hers was a softer, coffee colour. He had a stronger build, shaped like a tonne of bricks, whereas she was slender and trim, more delicate.

Half-siblings or not, W. D. loved his sister fiercely. Anne had said it herself; he had practically raised her, after their father was murdered, and their mother rescued them from the plantation. Plenty of times had W. D. warned him what would happen if he hurt Anne, and Phillip had not taken the threats lightly. Now, walking beside him, Phillip felt his palms pool with sweat, and nerves flutter in his stomach. Did he know that they had shared a bed the previous night? Could he see the stains Anne’s lips, her fingertips, had left behind?

Instead, Phillip’s panicking was brought to a swift end, when W. D. turned to face him, and gave him a brief - but genuine - smile.

“What you did,” W. D. began, in a gentle tone Phillip had never heard directed at him before from the trapeze artist. “Running back into that fire to save my sister, without hesitation, was very brave. Ain’t nobody ever risked their own safety like that for her, besides family. I guess I’ve always known how she feels about you, but I was always wary of your intentions. Going back into the building for Anne, that’s proof enough that you love her."

Phillip let out a sigh of relief he didn’t know he’d been holding in. “I do love her,” he nodded, hardly believing his ears. “More than words can describe."

“She didn’t leave your side for a moment in that hospital,” W. D. continued, his steely composure returned. “Even when the doctors wouldn’t let her in because of the colour of her skin, she fought to be with you. She ignored their stares, because she didn’t want you to wake up alone, and think she was gone. She ain’t ever been in love before, and certainly not this deep. I’m afraid no matter what happens now, she’ll always fight to be by your side."

Of course Phillip knew that Anne loved him, but the extent of how much had been lost on him. Hearing the words leave W. D.’s mouth, about how Anne had fought to be with him at the hospital, how she’ll aways fight to be with him now, sent his heart soaring.

“I assure you, the promise I made all those months ago of killing you if any harms comes to my little sister still stands,” W. D. finished, with such a fire in his eyes that Phillip felt if he stared too long he’d go blind.

Gulping, Phillip understood not to argue, and merely nodded.

Another few steps, and they reached the remains of what had been their home; the circus. Phillip gasped, as he clambered over the rubble. He had last seen it engulfed in flames, convinced that Anne was still inside. Walking over the bricks and mortar, he felt sick to his stomach thinking about how lucky Anne had been in escaping.

As though sensing his fears, a warm pair of hands snaked around his waist, and a head fell to rest on his shoulder. Anne clutched onto him, a tear falling down her cheek. “The circus was the first home many of us had had in years,” she muttered, shakily.

Phillip’s arm laid to rest on Anne’s shoulder, holding her close to his body. “You’ve got a home with me now,” he whispered, planting a kiss atop her forehead. “And I promise we’ll help the others. Even if it means they’re all bunking in with us."

Anne laughed, and the sound never failed to send goosebumps down his spine.

Many of the other acts had gathered too. They were digging through the rubble, trying to salvage what they could. Anne and Phillip joined them, unable to stand by idle. Bending down as far as his wounds would allow, Phillip lifted a rock pile so that Anne could pull out her beloved hoop. She held the metal in her hands, staring down sadly at something she had once adored.

Suddenly, Phillip heard another set of footprints, and turned around to spot P. T. walking towards them. He looked a little worse for wear, his clothes having seen better days. Beside him, Phillip felt Anne tense up. Given what she had told him about Charity’s conversation with her in the hospital, he mirrored her frustration towards their former ringleader.

“Bank said no?” he called out to P. T., jaw set. He knew the answer even before he opened his mouth.

“Methodically,” P. T. sighed. “Repeatedly. I don’t think there’s a banker left in the country I can fool into loaning me more money, so . . . I’m really sorry to disappoint you all."

A collective snort came from the group of circus acts. “Don’t worry Barnum, we’ve gotten used to it by now!” Charles teased, though completely serious. Everyone laughed, even P. T. himself.

“You know, Barnum?” Phillip began, stepping forward. "When I first met you, I had an inheritance to claim, an invitation to every party in town, and now thanks to you, that’s all gone. All that’s left is friendship, love, and a work that I adore. You brought joy into my life.” He had wanted to say you brought Anne into my life, but felt that would be too much. A beam spread across his face, as he thought about how empty his life had been before, how meaningless, and how much more he enjoyed his life now. How he now had Anne.

“Into all our lives,” agreed Lettie.

“Here, here!” echoed Daniel Malone, the Lord of Leeds.

P. T. smirked. “I wonder if the bank will take joy as collateral?"

Shrugging, Phillip turned to glance at Anne behind him, who gave him a beam of encouragement. “They may not, but I will,” he answered, to P. T.’s shock. “I own ten percent of the show. Knowing who I was working for, I had the good sense to take my cut weekly."

Shaking his head, P. T. for the first time was rendered speechless, if only for a few seconds. “Phillip, I can’t let you gamble all that money on me."

“Oh, sure you can,” Anne exclaimed, her Southern accent cutting through the conversation, and filling Phillip with butterflies.

“Don’t turn sensible on us now!” Lettie cried, earning another laugh from the troupe.

Holding out his hand, Phillip raised an eyebrow. “Partners,” he told P. T., carefully watching the other man. “Fifty-fifty.” P. T. didn’t hesitate for long when he came to shake Phillip’s outstretched hand.

“Partners,” he replied, a grin spreading across his face.

Phillip sighed. “Only thing is, I don’t know how we’re going to afford a building."

“Right . . . ,” Phillip frowned, his eyes darting back and forth as his mind whirred away. “Building, we don’t need a building. Real estate in Manhattan is a terrible investment - wait, I can get us land down by the docks for almost nothing, all we need is a tent."


	32. “Oh?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Phillip come to understand a few things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I feel like I need to clear something up. I apologise if my last chapter confused some people, but I have planned every chapter out in accordance with the film. This story's main focus is the relationship of Anne and Phillip, which is why any of the scenes from the film that don't include them are then not included in my story. For example, the Tightrope scene, and the From Now On scene - in the bar.
> 
> I also feel that the characters were not necessarily 'cool' with P. T. when he returned to the remains of the circus, hence the snide comments from Charles, Lettie, and Anne. Phillip's enthusiasm in rebooting the circus wasn't just because of P. T., it was so he could help everyone.
> 
> However, I have included a scene in this chapter that will (hopefully) tie up all loose ends.
> 
> Finally, the scenes that I feel are relevant to this story are, mostly, 'copied' word for word, because that's what happens in the scene. It would make no sense for me to change the dialogue.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading, and I hope I have explained myself clearly.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

As the other acts all start to make their way to the temporary accommodations they had managed to find, Anne and Phillip stood with Lettie and her brother. Anne was distant from the conversation in truth. She instead was staring at the pile of rocks she had loved so much. There was no way she could have known five months ago, when she came for the audition at Barnum’s Circus, that she would come to think of the place as home. That the other acts would become family. She had worked for ringleaders before, worked with other acrobats, and none had ever felt as close to her as the acts at Barnum’s did.

All of that had been in jeopardy. The night the flames overcame the building, her thoughts had been consumed with Phillip. She was glad she hadn’t a spare second to consider what would become of their little family at the circus, or else she would have surely gone mad with worry.

P. T. made his way over to them, hands in his pockets. He appeared a little sheepish. “I’m glad to see you out the house, Phillip,” he said, honestly. Anne looped her arm through Phillip’s. “And you with him, Anne."

There was only one thing Anne could bring herself to say to him; “Thank you for rescuing Phillip that night. Without you, he wouldn’t be stood here today.” Despite her repulsion at what he did to Charity, she was forever indebted to P. T. for running back into the circus to carry Phillip out. She wasn’t sure what she’d be doing if he hadn’t survived. “And for convincing the doctors to let me in to see him."

“I only did what was right,” P. T. explained with a small smile, then turned to Phillip. “You mean too much, to a lot of people. If I hadn’t of gone in, I’m certain Anne would have."

Anne knew that was true, and she knew Phillip knew it too. He placed a hand over hers, and squeezed reassuringly.

“Now, Charity told me about your conversation with her, at the hospital, and I’d like to clear a few things up,” P. T. continued, in a quiet voice, quieter than she had ever heard her ringleader speak before. “Those photographs, printed in the newspaper, they were real, yes, but the situation was not. Miss Lind kissed me when the show had come to a close, and when she knew the cameras would be flashing. I never wanted it, and I’d never behaved that way towards her before - or afterwards. I came home straight away, wanting nothing more than to be with my family."

There was a certain type of sincerity evident in P. T.’s manner that Anne didn’t doubt a single word he said. Instead, she felt guilty for despising him so. He had been caught up in a disorientating circumstance, and everybody had jumped to the worst possible conclusion. Even after he had given her and her brother a home, saved Phillip from the fiery inferno, and ensured that she was allowed to sit by his bedside, she still managed to think the worst of him.

“However, Charity has thankfully agreed to take me back,” P. T. added, unable to stop the smile from spreading across his charming features. “I know that my behaviour as of late has been appalling, leaving you all to fend for yourselves whilst I squandered our money, but I should like you to know that from here on in, I’ve vowed to be a better man, and a better employer."

Anne caught Phillip’s eye, and she grinned. They believed him.

* * *

The happy couple walked home, hand in hand. Despite the snide comments and disapproving glares, they were happier than they had ever been before. Phillip wasn’t as short of breath as he had been the day before, which meant the smoke was beginning to clear from his lungs. Anne felt as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, now that she knew the Barnum’s were working things out.

As they walked past building after building, shop after shop, Anne was entranced by what she saw.

“You know, out of all the places I’ve seen and lived, New York is my favourite,” Anne sighed, a smile playing on her lips.

“Where else have you been?” Phillip asked her, curiously.

Casting her mind back, Anne thought hard about her answer. “Well, you know I was born in New Orleans,” she began. “And you know that I escaped with W. D. to Baton Rouge. There we were sold to Gilbert LaRue’s Travelling Oddities, where we went all over Texas. We then discovered that we would be travelling back through Louisiana, and we couldn’t risk being caught again, so we ran away when I was twelve. We hitchhiked all through Indian Territory, then through Arkansas to get to Mississippi, when we joined Mr Wu’s Wandering Wonders. I was thirteen, and we travelled all up North, visiting Missouri and Iowa to get to Illinois."

Even as she continued to talk, Anne could see Phillip’s eyes grow wide with astonishment, hanging onto her every word.

“At fifteen we joined the Circus of Pépin and Breschard. We went through Indiana, Kentucky, Ohio and Virginia. They were some of the best years, until Pépin died, and Breschard had to let everyone go. I was eighteen, and we decided to head to Pennsylvania. With no money, and no circus to join, we had to find work. I was a maid for three separate households, unable to keep a job for long. After two years in Philadelphia, we came to New York last December, and joined Barnum’s Circus in the March."

Phillip was certainly taken aback by the amount of places Anne had visited, by the way that he was struggling to digest it all. Fortunately, she knew that he had a rather logical mind. “That’s thirteen states,” he gasped, awestruck. “And four different circuses."

Anne nodded. “I think that’s why me and W. D. are so happy here. The constant travelling, the uncertainty of whether we’d wake to have a job, the fear that second we stepped foot in a Confederate State we could be taken away - it all became too much. New York, and Barnum’s Circus, is like a breath of fresh air."

As Phillip reached out to open their front door - that was still odd to say; ‘their front door’ Anne thought - she didn’t realise that they had made their way home. He rubbed his eyes, clearly tired from the exercise after days of bedrest. “I can’t believe you’ve been to so many places,” he said, shaking his head. “I’d never left New York until I was eighteen, and that was only to go to Harvard in Massachusetts, which is barely a day away."

Helping him shrug off his jacket, Anne cocked her head. “You’ve never wanted to travel?” she asked him, curiously.

“My parents never really encouraged it,” he sighed. “And I guess I never had any motivation to do so."

It didn’t take much for Anne to notice just how exhausted Phillip was. She aided him up the stairs, and opened the door for him to their bedroom - temporarily theirs, she scolded herself. He began to slip off his braces on his trousers, whilst Anne shed her cardigan, when she saw the pain cross his face. He had done extremely well in their trek to the circus, and in assisting them with the retrieval of equipment, but it had taken it’s toll on him. Stepping forward, Anne gently began to unbutton his shirt for him. She couldn’t meet his eyes, for a blush spread across her features.

She slid her hands across his broad shoulder, her fingertips brushing against his bare skin, as she tugged off the shirt. Her breath hitched in her throat as she was left staring at his torso, the sculpted muscles making her cheeks burn deep scarlet. Wounds or not, Phillip was a handsome man. Her hands had started to tremble slightly, and she cursed under her breath for behaving like some silly schoolgirl.

Carefully, Phillip took Anne’s hands in his his, as she looked up to face him. His touch was delicate, and his eyes were kind and bright. “I can manage the rest,” he told her, softly, with a heartening smile on his lips.

Anne beamed back at him, her face still a little warm, and turned her back to allow him some privacy. She caught sight of him in the mirror, and found it hard to look away. He coughed to let her know that he was decent, and she turned back around. She then proceeded to help into bed, and began adjusting his pillows for him. As she stroked his cheek, he reached out to hold her hand. “If you don’t mind, could you stay with me again tonight?” he asked her, tenderly. “I don’t like waking up and not finding you here."

Barely giving it a moment’s thought, Anne nodded, knowing that she couldn’t say no to him. “Alright,” she answered, with a glint in her eye. “I’ll just go and get dressed."

When Anne returned to the room, she was wearing her ivory nightgown. Tugging at the thin material, she was suddenly aware of Phillip’s eyes on her. As though sensing her discomfort, Phillip looked away, and pulled back the covers for her to get in beside him. Anne was grateful that he shuffled along a little bit, so that there would be enough space between them.

Clambering into the bed, she pulled the sheets up to her chin. She could feel the warmth radiating off of Phillip, and just knowing that he was a mere few centimetres away from her sent butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

“I’m sorry,” she heard Phillip mutter. “I know that this could feel like it’s moving too fast for you. I swear, I’m not trying to behave . . . inappropriately."

Anne reached down and squeezed Phillip’s hand. “I trust you,” she assured him, genuinely. “It’s just I told you that I’ve never . . . done anything, with a anyone before Jacob kissed me. The only man I’ve ever shared a room with is my brother. Lying next to somebody different, it’s strange."

Sitting up, the candlelight casting a golden glow over her, she took a sharp intake of breath. Phillip’s brow furrowed, and he propped himself up on his elbow, groaning slightly. “There’s something else,” she added, her voice a little wobbly.

“Oh?” Phillip replied, sounding concerned.

“Remember I said that I had been a maid in Philadelphia?” she began, just as anxious as she had been telling Lettie about sharing a bed with Phillip, if not more anxious. “Well, after I was let go of my second post as a maid for a family of seven, I found a job working for two brothers. Unable to read, I simply spotted the word ‘maid’ and applied. A few days later, I began work. When I got to their apartment I discovered that I knew the brothers. Abraham and Newton Duchannes. They were old friends of the Wheeler’s, the family I had once belonged to."

Captivated by her story, Phillip’s eyes widened. “Did they recognise you?"

Anne nodded, feeling her heart beat quicken, her hands shaking once more. She hadn’t told anybody about this encounter, nobody but her brother. "You see, when I was a little girl, they liked to tease me. They would throw pebbles at me when I was in the fields, and tipped buckets of water over me when Samuel - the eldest Wheeler son - told them that I was scared of water. Abraham is W. D.’s age, and Newton is only a year older than me. They were awful to me, for years."

A tear fell from her cheek, and Phillip was quick to dab it away. He inched a little closer to Anne, and held her hand, softly.

“I hadn’t seen them since I was eight years old, until twelve years later when I turned up on their doorstep. They threatened to tell the authorities I was a runaway slave, or worse still - tell the Wheeler’s where I was, if I didn’t work for them. I was so scared, I couldn’t even tell W. D., and we share everything. I went and served them dinners, cleaned up their messes, and opened doors for them for three months. I felt sick to my stomach every morning when I walked to their apartment. The pair of them would leer over me, and give me odd looks, but I ignored it - I had to. That is until one of them tried to slip his hand up my skirts. I slapped him, and left before he could hit me back. That night, me and W. D. left for New York, after I had calmed him down."

Her lip was beginning to tremble, so Phillip pulled her close to him, allowing her to rest her head in the crook of his neck. He planted a kiss on Anne's head in an attempt to soothe her, and wrapped an arm around her. “I saw you in Buckingham Palace, in your costume. You were so uncomfortable, trying to hide behind the others. I had thought it was because of your skin colour, but was it something else? Men were staring at you, and it enraged me, but I hadn’t realised you had seen them."

“It was both,” Anne admitted, swallowing down a sob. “I love my costume, but sometimes I feel like it puts me under a microscope. I hadn't really noticed the attention until I got older. That’s one of the reasons I want to take things slowly, if you understand. Though I have very limited experience when it comes to men, the experience I do have isn’t very pleasant."

Softly, Phillip brushed his thumb along Anne’s jawline, as she looked up at him. “I promise you, this is all at your pace,” he told her, sweetly. "I’d wait forever for you."

Anne smiled, her heart bursting with love for him. “I’m not asking for forever,” she whispered, her eyes flitting between his eyes and his lips. “Just a little while longer."

* * *

They awoke together the next morning, after Phillip had suffered yet another nightmare in the night. Anne took him into the bathroom, and unbuttoned his pyjama shirt, a little less affected by his muscles, though still felt her knees buckle. She proceeded to unravel his bandages, as he sat down on the edge of the bathtub. In the morning light, his burns were on full view. Phillip was somewhat embarrassed by them, and pretended to be engrossed in the soap dish on the side, rather than look at Anne. She sympathised with him, truly. She despised being confined to her bed when she was injured, and hated the looks of pity even more.

“They’re looking much better,” she told him, dabbing gently at the wounds with a wet cloth. “Practically healing themselves."

“They’re still hideous,” Phillip grumbled.

Anne continued to clean the burns, and then wrapped them in fresh bandages. She tried to help Phillip get dressed, but he assured her that he would be fine, and said she was welcome to go down and eat some breakfast. Still a little cautious, Anne nodded, though waited at the foot of the stairs for him to come down, afraid that he could stumble.

Disappearing into the kitchen, she began to make some eggs, bacon, and coffee. Phillip had had a rough night, and needed something fulfilling. She was certain he had waited for her to fall asleep until he even considered closing his eyes, making sure she was alright. He had been screaming her name again in the early hours, before the sun had even risen. Anne had to shake him awake, and when he thought she was a mere apparition she had kissed him to anchor him. The pair of them had slept lightly after that, jerking awake at the slightest of sounds.

Yawning, Anne carried their plates into the dining room, and saw Phillip sat at the table. He gave her a kind smile. “I wish you’d let me help,” he told her, after he thanked her for the food. Anne waved it off.

“Eat up,” she replied, with a wink.

They tucked into their breakfast, barely uttering another word to one another, the food was that delicious. After the plates had been cleared, and the coffee had been drunk, they heard a knock at their door. Anne composed herself, and went to answer it, despite Phillip getting to his feet to do it for her. She was relieved to see the beaming faces of Helen and Caroline, P. T. stood behind them. The two girls rush in, and throw their arms around her. Over the tops of their heads, Anne could see P. T. clutching a briefcase.

“What a nice surprise,” Anne grinned, honestly.

“I’m glad to hear that, I was afraid we’d caught you at a bad time,” P. T. explained, stepping inside. He closed the door, for Anne was too busy being swarmed. She showed them into the living room. “I’m here to do business with Phillip - if he’s up to it?"

Anne was hesitant. Really, Phillip just needed rest, but once he knew P. T. was there, he wouldn’t be able to say no. Instead, she nodded her head, and went into the dining room to fetch him. The pair returned to the Barnum’s, where the two girls’ faces lit up, and they bounded over to Phillip.

“Careful!” Anne warned, afraid that they would cause his wounds to tear. Phillip clearly wasn’t as worried as she was, as he reached down to lift not one, but both of them up. He soon set them back down on the ground after a stern stare from Anne.

P. T. opened up his briefcase, and began to pull out an array of documents that Anne couldn’t make head nor tail of. Instead, whilst the two partners talked numbers, Anne started to entertain the two girls. They try teaching her some of Caroline’s ballet moves, ones she had learnt in her fancy school. Anne, who was a competent dancer, pretended to be bad, terrible even, so that they would laugh at her. When they would twirl, she would tumble, and when they would perform pirouettes, she would plummet to the floor.

Once or twice she caught Phillip’s eye, when he was supposed to be listening to P. T., and was entranced by his infectious grin.

Before the Barnum’s got up to leave, a couple of hours later, P. T. was adamant that Anne and Phillip attend dinner at their house sometime that week. They were unable to say no.


	33. “Isn’t it your birthday Anne, some time this month?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne has decided how she wants to celebrate her birthday - Phillip, of course, has other plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter left after this one! It's quite bittersweet, coming to end of this story, but also exciting because then I can begin the new one, and I have some great ideas for that one.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Phillip was sat in the living room, in the armchair he favoured most, foot tapping apprehensively on the floor. He was clad in a neatly pressed white shirt, and beige trousers, matched with some black suspenders and a brown jacket. His fingers were itching to hold a bottle, and his eyes kept darting back and forth between the doorway, and the drinks cabinet. He knew he shouldn’t touch another drop, for Anne’s sake more than his, but the urge was unforgiving.

He couldn’t tell Anne about his addiction, though he was certain she already knew. How would she feel if he told her that sometimes the pain was just too overwhelming, and that no matter how much she smiled at him, and cared for him, and loved him - it wasn’t going to be enough. He needed the drink, but he didn’t want to offend Anne.

Instead, he distracted himself by closing his eyes. If he couldn’t see the alcohol, he wouldn’t be tempted - or at least, that was his logic.However, he simply drifted off. Sleep had evaded Phillip most nights, but he hadn’t minded much. Not when he had Anne wrapped up in his arms, her soft curls tickling his chin, and her limbs entangled in his. She’d wanted her space, and he’d respected that, but in the night she would inch her way over to him. For fear of missing a moment with her, and of what nightmares he would succumb to, he would lie awake. When his eyes would eventually fall shut, memories of _that_ night would overcome him until he would be shaken awake by Anne, her face a picture of worry.

Suddenly, just as he was beginning to slip into unconsciousness, he heard a cough. Eyes shooting open, he saw Anne in the doorway. She was smiling, nervously, holding out her new dress for him to admire. All her clothes, besides her beloved silk shawl and grey dress, had perished in the fire. Phillip had insisted that she let him buy her a new outfit to wear especially for the Barnum’s, and when she told him off sternly for handing out money, he told her that he could take the coins instead from her wage at the circus. She'd agreed then.

The new dress was a soft lavender, and fitted her perfectly. The colour complimented everything about her, especially her cocoa skin. Her hair was half up, half down, curls falling about her face, framing her like a Renaissance portrait. Her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were dashed with a speck of rouge. She was indescribably beautiful.

“What do you think?” she asked him, chewing on her lip, anxiously.

Phillip stood up out of his chair, unable to tear his eyes from her. He held her hands in his, and gave Anne a little twirl, as she laughed softly. “You’re breathtaking,” he whispered, pulling her close. He uttered those exact same words to her at Buckingham Palace, the night she asked him why he was so interested in her.

Anne grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She leaned in, her lips centimetres away from his. “And you’re still a fool, Mr Carlyle,” she muttered, before kissing him.

* * *

They arrived to the Barnum’s a little later than expected, as they had a struggle finding a carriage willing to take them - or Anne, really. The stifling August heat meant that Phillip had shed his jacket almost immediately, sweat beading on his forehead. Anne chuckled at him, barely affected by the warmth. He stepped out of the carriage first, and took ahold of Anne’s waist to help lift her down.

Charity and P. T. were waiting for them on the top steps, wide grins across their faces. They opened their arms to welcome the other couple in, the smell of something delicious cooking wafting out of the kitchen. Phillip watched as Charity fawned over Anne’s lovely new dress, whilst P. T. took his jacket.

“Can you believe the temperature tonight?” P. T. exclaimed, fanning himself for added effect.

Beside him, Charity huffed, pushing her hair from off her face. “I’ve never known heat like this!” she added, flustered.

As they all sat down at the table, Anne smiled. “Nothing beats the summers in Louisiana,” she said, nostalgia dripping from her every syllable. She laughed as she began to recount a story from her childhood. “Every time I’d complain of the heat, my mama would ramble on about the weather in her village in Zimbabwe, reminding us all that we had it easy. She would tell this story of how she once saw a white man actually melt because of the sun."

They all laughed, as Charity began dishing up. The meal was roast chicken, served with potatoes, carrots, and gravy.

“Anne, sweetie, have you ever tried to contact your mother?” Charity asked, gently.

The beam slipped from Anne’s face, and Phillip reached over to take ahold of her hand. “Slaves don’t get letters, and even if I did try to write one, my mama can’t read,” she explained, shrugging. “I can’t risk going back to the plantation to see her, or else they’ll surely take me again. I’d rather be reunited with my mama, both of us free, then upsetting her by coming home in chains."

Nobody quite knew what to say, instead Anne waved it off, apologising for being so morbid, and encouraged them to start eating dinner. Phillip brushed his thumb across her knuckles, comfortingly, and gave her a warm smile. P. T. stood up, and began to pour everyone a drink. He and Charity had a glass of wine each, Anne had just water, and P. T. was about to pour another glass of wine for Phillip, before he held out a hand to stop him.

“I’ll just have a water too, thanks,” he muttered, glancing at Anne out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t want to disappoint her, no matter how desperately his tongue craved the taste of alcohol. The smile on her face almost made the sacrifice worth it.

They continued to eat dinner, with everyone polishing off every morsel of food off their plates, when Charity announced that she had made her famous apple pie for the dessert. Phillip feared his eyes were bigger than his stomach, when he insisted she serve him an extra large helping even a giant would struggle with. Whilst he attempted to shovel spoonful after spoonful into his mouth, Charity gasped.

“Isn’t it your birthday Anne, some time this month?” she recalled. “You’ll be twenty-one, won’t you? What day have you picked?"

Grinning, Anne turned to Phillip. They had been discussing this very topic in the carriage ride over. “The 30th,” she answered, glowing. It was the day before they planned to open the new circus, on the docks.

“What a splendid idea!” P. T. cried, clapping his hands together. “You must let us help you celebrate it in some way. Perhaps we could have a party here? invite the whole circus - "

Anne shook her head, though was still as polite as ever. “Thank you for the gesture, P. T., but I was hoping to keep it small?” she told him. “I’ve never really had a fuss made about me before, only ever quiet dinner at home with W. D. - or in whatever circus we were apart of."

That thought was a little hard to hear for Phillip. The idea that Anne had never truly and properly commemorated her birthday, and that she had only ever shared it with her brother, was a saddening one. Even despite his harsh, and cold upbringing, Phillip’s parents would always ensure that for his birthday they would hold a very large, and very expensive, party in his honour. It was partly to wave their wealth under their so-called friends’ noses, and partly to introduce Phillip to all the young ladies of high-esteem, in the hope that he would meet his future wife.

No. Despite what Anne had said, he wasn’t going to let her birthday go by unnoticed once more.

* * *

Anne awoke the morning of her birthday to the smell of freshly baked bread, and hot coffee. As her eyes fluttered open, she saw Phillip stood at the foot of the bed, holding a tray of breakfast things - all of her favourites. There was tangy orange marmalade, there was perfectly boiled eggs, there was piping hot toast, and there was rashers and rashers upon bacon. Of course, he had brought up the coffee pot too, with the crooked handle, steam rising from the spout.

Before moving in with Phillip, she had never tasted marmalade, and now it had become a fast favourite of hers. Beaming from ear to ear, she threw the sheets back, and got to her knees, hands clasped to her chest. “Oh, Phillip!” she exclaimed, happily.

Looking up from the tray of delicious delights, she smiled at Phillip. He was grinning back, the swoon-worthy grin that never failed to make Anne’s heart skip a beat, and set the tray down on the bed. He was clad in a loose-fitting ivory cotton shirt, that hung off his solid frame, poorly tucked into his black trousers. His hair hadn’t been combed, and his locks were all over the place - just how Anne liked it. Shining blue eyes watched her carefully, hands resting on his hips. He had the makings of a bear forming on his face, the stubble having gone untouched over the past few weeks. Anne hadn’t minded much, it made him look rugged, though it tickled when she kissed him. In short, he was irresistibly good-looking.

“Happy Birthday, my love," he said to her, softly, perching next to her on the bed. “You don’t mind me making a fuss of you?”

Anne shook her head, curls dancing about her face. “Not one bit,” she replied, and whipped her head around to gaze at him, lovingly. Her eyes drank him in, before lingering on his lips. She leaned in first, and followed suit, as they kissed, passionately.

They broke apart, breathless, smiles still present. As Anne turned to face her breakfast again, Phillip ran his fingertips across her neck, brushing her hair back. He began to leave a trail of kisses down her bare shoulder, sending a shiver down her spine. She was wearing her nightgown, the one that hung from her shoulders, so his stubble was brushing against her flesh. She laughed, and nudged him off.

“You’ll have to shave that soon,” she warned him, teasingly. “Or else you’ll scare the customers."

Chuckling, Phillip poured her a mug of coffee. “I’m sure P. T. can spin it in our favour,” he grinned. “Walter can be the _‘Dog Boy’_ , and I’ll be the . . . _‘Man Bear’_."

As Anne was handed the coffee, and took a cautious sip, she snorted. “If you’re gonna be partners, I should hope that you’ll come up with better names than that."

Phillip flashed her a wide smile as he got up from the bed, and disappeared into their adjoining bathroom. Leaving the door open, he made sure that he could still talk to her, and hear what she said. “What do you want to do today, birthday girl?” he asked her, his voice slightly muffled. “Your choice."

Biting into a slice of toast, lashings of marmalade spread across, Anne shrugged. “Well, I’ve got last minute rehearsals today, before the show tomorrow,” she called after him. “Just that last dance number with everyone and P. T., but afterwards we could perhaps go for dinner at this café I’ve been meaning to take you? W. D. too?"

The café in question was the one Jacob had taken her on their first, and only outing, but she wasn’t going to tell Phillip that. She liked the food, and the music, and the atmosphere. It was one of the only places, besides the circus and Phillip’s apartment, that she felt comfortable and could actually blend in.

“Sounds wonderful,” Phillip replied, peeking his head through the doorway. She giggled, seeing the lower half of his face covered in a white cream, a razor in his hand. He winked at her, and retreated back into the bathroom.

* * *

Anne had gotten dressed quickly that morning, after her splendid breakfast, worried that she’d miss the start of practice. It would seem rude to turn up late, and she hadn’t the heart to disappoint anyone. So, wearing her plain grey dress, silk shawl wrapped across her shoulders, her hair thrown back in a messy bun, she tapped her foot waiting for Phillip to join her at the bottom of the stairs. He had been insisting he wrapped his own bandages for the last week or so, and hadn’t quite mastered it. However, every time Anne offered to lend him a hand, he had shot up and assured her he was capable himself. He was rather abrupt with her, though had made it up to her tenfold afterwards.

Just as Anne was mustering breath to call his name up the stairs, he came bounding down. All the smoke had since cleared from his lungs, and he was able to jog for short periods of time. Running was another bridge to cross when they came to it.

“Honestly Phil, I ain’t gonna be offended if you want to stay at home,” she told him, handing him his jacket. “There’s nothing for you to do at the circus anyway. You’ll just be bored."

Phillip waved it off. “Nonsense, I have plenty of paperwork to do,” he replied, as they stepped outside. Anne’s arm instantly looped through his, and they began walking down the street. They had become accustomed to ignoring the odd stares they received from many of the passersby.

Knowing that she couldn’t convince him otherwise, Anne squeezed his arm, and continued to walk to the docks. The new tent was looking a treat, with red and white stripes she was certain you could see from space. Looking around, they saw nobody. The place looked empty. Anne frowned, whereas Phillip merely shrugged it off. He held open the piece of fabric for her to step inside the ‘Big Top’, so aptly chosen by their ringleader, kindly.

What Anne had been expecting to see inside was everybody hard at work, bustling and hustling. Not, however, them all stood around a table piled with a mountain of presents - well, a mountain by Anne’s standards. Neatly wrapped, they all were colourful and bright, each of their tags reading ‘To Anne’. All the acts had gathered, and even the Barnum’s and Mr O’Malley were waiting for her. A banner, clearly drawn so lovingly by Helen and Caroline, was hung above them, wishing Anne a happy birthday.

They had all begun singing too, a song about her birthday, and that was when the tears began to fall. She felt for Phillip’s hand beside her, and he held her steady so that she wouldn’t fall. She caught W. D.’s eye. as he winked at her, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“Is this all for me?” she spluttered, wiping her tears away, feeling like a fool. She could hardly believe her eyes.

Charity approached her, smiling warmly, and offered her a delicate handkerchief. “It was all Phillip’s idea,” she whispered.

Turning to look at Phillip next to her, Anne felt her heart burst with love for the man. He was looking back at her with soft eyes, a hopeful beam playing on his lips. He was the most gentle, most kind, and most considerate man she had ever met, and felt like the luckiest girl in the world that she got to call him hers. Wanting nothing more than to kiss him, she stopped herself, knowing that she had to thank everyone else.

It took a while to say her thank you’s, but she got around to every single person, meaning it every time. Finally, Helen cried out that she should open her presents. Anne’s fingers were trembling as she tried to unwrap the first gift, from Chang and Eng. Nobody had ever given her a present before, besides sweet little trinkets from W. D., the silk shawl from her mama, and the book from Phillip. Inside the paper was a small china jewellery box, no bigger than the palm of her hand. It was decorated with Thai symbols, painted in deep blue ink. She gasped, and wasn’t quite sure what to say. She muttered a thank you, too shocked to say much else, and set it down. Picking up the next gift, she saw that it was from Lettie. It was a delicate thimble, made of brass.

“So you stop pricking your damn finger all the time,” Lettie teased, as the young acrobat wrapped her arms around her.

Anne continued to open the gifts, stunned at how thoughtful and exquisite they all were. She received an emerald necklace, a velvet purse, a smoking pipe (from Mr O’Malley, which was quickly confiscated by her brother, grimly), a lovely vase, a gravy boat, a new pair of slippers, a breathtaking sketching of her in her pink costume (drawn by Constantine, who then offered to tattoo it onto Phillip who was at a loss for words), a bouquet of posies, an embodied handkerchief with her initials on, and a luxurious bottle of perfume (from Charles, who joked that it was taken from the Queen in Buckingham Palace, though something told Anne it wasn’t a joke).

Somebody began to pour everyone a glass of celebratory wine, scandalous to onlookers for it was not yet past ten o’clock in the morning. Everyone besides Anne, Helen, Caroline and surprisingly Phillip held up their glasses to toast Anne, as Charles called out for her to make a speech.

Anne wasn’t one for public speaking - she’d never really tried it before. There was never a crowd large enough who wanted to hear her talk. However, with Phillip holding her hand and everyone beaming up at her, she felt comfortable enough to say what was on her mind, and in her heart.

“When me and W. D. arrived in New York last Christmas, it wasn’t under pleasant circumstances. We were hungry, we were poor, and we were scared. I saw the advertisement for the circus, calling out to all the ‘curiousties', and I remember thinking; _'we’re black, not a curiosity'_. I wasn’t best impressed, until I arrived to the auditions, and saw the building overflowing with people who looked just like me, people who looked nothing like me, everyone with beautiful and unique talents. Since meeting you, P. T. Barnum, you’ve done nothing but make my life, and everyone else’s lives, better. You’ve given us all a home and a family, even when we thought we weren’t worthy of neither."

Just a quick glance at the other acts, and Anne knew that she was speaking for them all, echoing their thoughts.

“Had someone told me this time last year that I’d be spending my birthday with all of you, happy, employed, and in love - I’d have told them just where they could stick their ridiculous ideas.” They all laughed at that. “But here I am. So thank you, all of you, from the bottom of my heart."


	34. “What’s it like being in love?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh I can't believe this is over! I've never finished anything before in my life, and I've been writing now for seven years. Thank you to everyone who read this and enjoyed it, you have all kept so motivated to write more! I saw a post on Instagram today that I think (I hope) was about this story, and I couldn't believe that people were actually talking about my writing.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and I can't wait to write more for you all!

* * *

Anne adored her new dressing room. It was a tent attached to the Big Top, that was twice the size of her old room. It had three vanity mirrors inside, a rack of outfits and a burgundy divan. She now shared with Queenie and Patsey, and W. D. was in another tent with Constantine and Mswati. She loved her brother, but she was over the moon at the fact that they know weren’t sharing anymore. She could hardly get dressed in front of him, which defeated the point of having a dressing room.

Also, she rather enjoyed the company of girls. Her whole life Anne had wondered what it would be like to have a sister - now she feels as though she had won the lottery, and been given two. Queenie was four years older than her, and Patsey two, but they all got on like a house on fire. Anne was comfortable around them, comfortable enough to tell them anything, and they didn’t hold back either.

“So, how are you finding it at Mr Carlyle’s?” Queenie asked, raising an eyebrow as she smirked. “Anything happened yet . . . ?"

Anne’s cheeks grew hot, as Patsey scolded the fire-breather. “You know Anne’s a good girl, don’t say things like that!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes.

Amidst her blush, Anne laughed. “No, it’s fine,” she spoke up. “Nothing has happened. I mean, we’ve kissed a little . . . . well, a lot, but that’s it!"

The other two girls grinned, as Anne took a seat beside them at the mirrors. She was dressed in her new purple leotard, but had yet to put her wig or her make-up on. Picking up one of the brushes in front of her, Anne began to dab some glitter on her cheekbones, whilst Queenie and Patsey continued to probe her about Phillip.

“What’s it like being in love?” Patsey inquired, slowly. Her brows were knitted, and she was braiding her hair, looking at Anne through the reflection in the mirror.

Sighing blissfully, Anne couldn’t help the smile from spreading across her face. “It’s as if I learned to breathe the second I saw him,” she told them, thoughtfully.

As if he could hear them saying his name, Phillip called out from the other side of the tent. He was polite enough to not barge in, instead waiting patiently for one of them to allow him in. The second he peered his head in, beaming, Anne felt her heart flutter. He was clutching a bouquet of flowers, some dazzling, bright blue forget-me-nots, the exact same shade as Phillip’s eyes. He was already wearing his costume ready for the show, and looked so handsome that she had to pinch herself to remind her he was hers. Stepping inside, Phillip was beaming from ear to ear, and held out the flowers for Anne. She was still sat at her mirror, though had turned to face him, hands clasped over he chest.

“We’ll just give you two some space,” Patsey smirked, as she and Queenie got up to leave the dressing room. However, not before Anne caught them puckering their lips and making odd sounds in the reflection of the mirror. She glared at them, as they left the tent, laughing to themselves. Fortunately, Phillip had not seen a thing.

Anne took the flowers gratefully, and inhaled their fresh scent. “Lettie told me they were your favourite,” she heard Phillip say.

“Oh baby, they’re perfect,” she replied, smiling. Her New Orleans accent was heavy, her every syllable sounding as though it had been dripped in honey.

Standing so she was level with Phillip, though admittedly a little taller, she wrapped her arms around his neck, his hands snaking around her waist. “I love it when you call me baby,” he told her, pulling her in a little closer, so that she was flush against him.

“Baby, baby, baby,” she whispered, leaning in close, her lips grazing his ever so delicately. With the last baby, he kissed her, hungrily. She smiled against the kiss, as her fingers tangled in his hair. Kissing Phillip felt like flying, flying without a trapeze; that soaring feeling she would get in the pit of her stomach during a show couldn’t even compare to his lips on hers.

* * *

The audience was bigger than ever before. It was a combination of more space, the promise of a more spectacular show, and P. T.’s aggressive but effective marketing tactics. Anne peeked out from behind the curtain, as Mswati performed his act on the bed-of-nails, nerves threatening to get the better of her. W. D. was by her side, faithfully. He too was anxious by the larger crowd, but never let it show.

They helped each other to wrap their wrists, and stretch, as Phillip ran up to them to tell them they were on in five minutes. He gave Anne a quick wink, as she blew him a kiss, all while W. D. rolled his eyes. Anne nudged him, eyebrows furrowed.

“I thought you were alright with him?” she inquired, ensuring that her wig was pinned in place.

W. D. shrugged. “I am, I mean he saved your life didn’t he?” he replied, though his answer still didn’t fill Anne with any sort of reassurance. “But, he’s just always around. I feel like I never see you anymore."

Reaching out to place a hand on her brother’s shoulder, she gave him a soft smile, the kind she knew he couldn’t resist. “I’m sorry, but there ain’t nothing I can do about that,” she explained, gently. “We’re together, and so he’s gonna be around. Same as when you and Queenie stop making eyes at one another and actually start talking, I’ll be fine if you want to spend more time with her than you do me."

Trying to pretend as though he hadn’t heard the part about Queenie, though his blush said otherwise, W. D. cocked his head to the side. “You know, you look like mama when you smile like that,” he sighed. “I get it, you’re . . . with Phillip, so he’s gonna pop up like that all the time. But listen, I found this apartment just down the street from here, and seeing as Phillip’s feeling better -"

“Hold up, are you asking me to move back in with you?"

Frowning, W. D. nodded. “Like I said, Phillip don’t need you staying with him any longer now that he’s well again, so you can come home. You’ll get your own room, and the view is -

“We ain’t got time to talk about this now, W. D.!” Anne cried, just as the curtain was pulled back, and they were revealed to the audience. Cursing under her breath, Anne realised that had lost track of time, and missed the opportunity to get to their start positions. Instead, they merely threw their arms up in the air, plastered grins across their faces, and ran to the steps of the trapeze, and began their act from there.

When it came to the final dance, P. T. truly had spared no expense. Every single act was out on the stage, whether it be riding elephants, or breathing fire, or throwing knives, or soaring through the air, or merely just dancing. Anne had leapt from her trapeze onto a tope, and was spinning above them all, when she spotted Phillip slide into the centre of the stage. He started to dance along with the others, and she felt her heart burst with joy.

The second she heard his voice, joining in with the chorus, she couldn’t help herself. She let go of the rope, as her feet touched the ground. He flashed her wide grin, as she began the dance too, the pair of them at the front. Anne had practiced the dance herself many times, and knew it like the back of her hand. However, she realised she must have misjudged Phillip’s abilities, as all those times he had spent watching her practice he must have learnt something.

The thrilling feeling of performing again was intoxicating, and having Phillip with her only made it all the more exhilarating. She executed a particular dance move that she changed a little so that she placed her hand on his back. He turned to face her slightly, beaming as he sang, as she returned the smile. Simultaneously, they both danced together, never missing a single beat. Then, Anne stood to the side as Phillip began to turn, and swivel, showing off all the acts.

They came together again, holding their hands out to one another, as the acts gathered behind them, singing the final note. Phillip span Anne in his arms, and dipped her, taking off his hat slowly. Despite the cheers and the applause surrounding them, the pair were oblivious to anyone else but each other. Anne’s eyes locked with Phillip’s, as she brought her hand up to rest on the back of his neck. Their noses brushed, and they couldn’t help the smiles from spreading across their faces.

Both of them were alive. They were safe, they were together, and they were in love. Never had Anne felt unstoppable before, never had she felt as though she had everything she had ever wanted. But with Phillip in her arms, his bright, blue eyes drinking her in, she felt invincible. He loved her, she loved him, everything else was inconsequential.

So they kissed, in front of the crowd, in front of all the acts, simply because they could.


End file.
